In The Dark
by AlkalineTeegan
Summary: Tony's hiding something—no surprise there. But would it really be so bad if the members of his team found out? Warnings for language and spoilers throughout the series. NEW chapter up!
1. Chapter 1

"I'll stop by his apartment on my way in," McGee said into the phone while dodging mid-afternoon Sunday traffic.

"Do that," Gibbs answered. "Then tell him I'm going to kill him for not answering his phone when you two get in."

"You really think I should warn him?" McGee asked, then grimaced at the stupidity of that statement a second before sighing in relief.

Gibbs had already hung up on him.

McGee parked his car and headed into Tony's building, wishing he hadn't offered to stop by. It was bad enough that he had to come in on a Sunday for a case, but now he'd have to deal with whatever was keeping DiNozzo from answering _and_ a grumpy Gibbs—because DiNozzo wasn't answering. At least maybe Kate would show up in those yoga pants of hers. _I've been spending way too much time around Tony,_ he thought.

McGee stopped outside Tony's door and raised his fist to knock, hoping like hell that he wasn't about to interrupt his partner's afternoon romp with the random gorgeous chick of the week. He sighed and knocked.

No answer.

He called out his partner's name and banged harder on the door.

"Come on, DiNozzo. Gibbs is going to kill you. Us, if we don't hurry up. I know you're in there because I saw your car in the garage on the way up."

"_Nice investigating skills, Probie,"_ McGee imagined his partner saying.

_Yup, definitely hanging out with him too much lately. _

McGee sighed again and pulled out his keys, searching for the one Tony had given him a few weeks earlier.

"Partners should have each others' keys," Tony had said, shortly after McGee had been permanently assigned to Gibbs' team.

McGee winced when he realized he'd yet to return the gesture. He put it on his mental to-do list and slid the sharp new key into the lock.

He entered the apartment slowly, fighting the urge to cover his eyes. "I swear, Tony, if you're—"

McGee stopped when his foot connected with something out of place, something heavy, something … human.

McGee dropped to his knees beside his partner, who was curled on his side in obvious pain.

"Tony! What the hell?" McGee exclaimed, causing DiNozzo to curl tighter and moan.

McGee blinked in shock at the moan, the unmistakable sound of pain. McGee leaned down, taking in the way Tony's arms cradled his head. He put a hand on his shoulder and frowned when Tony flinched at the contact. He quickly looked over DiNozzo's curled, quivering body but couldn't see any visible injury.

"Tony, what's going on?"

DiNozzo hissed in pain, then said something McGee didn't quite pick up.

"What was that, Tony?" he asked. "What did you say?"

DiNozzo made the sound again, and McGee leaned in closer and realized Tony was just moaning "Shhhhhhhhhhh."

McGee was confused—and getting more worried by the second. He pulled his cell and called the only person he could think of.

"You better be calling from the elevator," Gibbs growled as a greeting.

"Um, Boss, no, I…"

"What, McGee?" Gibbs barked.

"I'm at Tony's," McGee managed, wondering why Tony was writhing as he spoke and desperately wanting him to stop. He'd never seen someone in such obvious agony be so silent.

"And?" Gibbs prompted, not liking the tremor in his agent's voice.

"Tony's … well, he's on the floor, and he's obviously hurting but I can't—"

Gibbs was already reaching for his keys. "Eyes closed, arms over his head?"

"Well, yeah," McGee said, frowning. "How did you—"

Gibbs didn't bother waiting for the elevator and took the stairs at breakneck speed. "Listen to me, McGee. You listening?"

"Y-Yeah, Boss."

"Where is he?"

"Living room floor."

"Go shut the blinds, turn off the lights and the TV, stereo, anything that's making noise," Gibbs said, trying to keep his bark to a minimum. McGee was obviously freaked out and Gibbs pushed away memories of his first time dealing with DiNozzo in this condition.

McGee got up and did what he was told, noticing that Tony's blinds blocked out the afternoon sun as well as steel sheets would have. He had to blink a few times to get his eyes to adjust to the sudden blackness of the room before going to where Tony still lay.

"Don't talk, McGee," Gibbs was saying in his ear. "Don't speak unless you have to and whisper if you do. And don't touch him."

McGee nodded in the dark, hoping Gibbs would answer his silent question.

"He suffers from migraines, Tim," Gibbs said gently. "I'm on my way, but I need you to do something for me while I drive over."

McGee wondered what he could possibly do without touching his suffering friend, but he knew without a doubt that he'd do anything to relieve the agony in the shaking, whimpering man beside him.

"Go down the hall and into the bathroom," Gibbs said, and McGee heard the blare of a car horn. "Top drawer on the right side. There should a black case the size of a paperback. You see it?"

"Yes," McGee whispered.

Gibbs allowed a faint smile despite his concern. "You don't have to whisper if he can't hear you."

"Oh, right," McGee said, his volume barely louder.

"Open the case and take out a syringe," Gibbs said. "It should be prefilled."

McGee did as he was told and gulped, knowing what was to come. _God, I hate needles._

"Take an alcohol wipe from the case and go back to Tony," Gibbs said. "Leave the bathroom light on if you think you'll need it to see, but only if you must. Light is like acid to the eyeballs for someone suffering from a bad migraine."

McGee nodded and decided he had to leave the light on as he made his way back to Tony's side. His partner was writhing again, making awful choked sounds low in his throat.

"Now whisper something and touch him gently to let him know you're there," Gibbs coached, his voice soothing in its authoritative confidence. It was the one normal thing about this whole twilight zone nightmare that McGee recognized.

He certainly did _not_ recognize the curled, whimpering, shaking—utterly _helpless_—man at his feet.

"But be careful, McGee," Gibbs was saying, "because he's hurting and probably disoriented and might lash out at you."

McGee dropped to his knees again and almost dropped the syringe. He reached out a hand with a tremor that rivaled Tony's and gently touched DiNozzo's shoulder. He recoiled immediately when Tony hissed in pain and shuddered.

"Tony, it's me," McGee whispered. "It's McGee. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Good, Tim. Now, he's all curled up, right?" Gibbs didn't wait for answer. "Try to get him on his back if you can. But don't force him if he fights you. And watch out, he might puke on you."

Gibbs added that last part with a grimace, remembering his second experience with DiNozzo and his migraines.

McGee tried to push Tony onto his back as gently as he could. DiNozzo's body complied, but he gagged as the movement jarred his agonized head. McGee was glad he didn't puke, but his gut twisted at the sight of his always strong partner flat on his back on his living room floor, gasping in pain.

"Got it, Boss," McGee whispered into the phone.

"Good job, McGee," Gibbs said, still fighting traffic and growing less patient by the minute. "Now, uncap the syringe and push the plunger so a bit of the liquid comes out."

"Boss, I…" McGee's hand shook as he stared at the needle's sharp point.

"Just do it, Tim," Gibbs said, forcing his voice to be calm. "Just like on TV. Squirt a little out, then pull up his shirt and push in the needle into his belly, just a little to the left or right of his navel. Push the needle in harder than you think you should because you need break the skin and get it into the muscle. Then push the plunger until you've injected all of the liquid. Don't forget to use the alcohol wipe first."

McGee's wide eyes flicked from his right hand on Tony's stomach to the needle in his left. "I can't do this, Boss," he whispered, closing his eyes and blocking out the glinting needle tip.

"McGee, listen to me," Gibbs said, his voice gentler than Tim had ever heard it. "I'm still ten minutes out. Every second that you wait is an eternity for him because he's hurting. Take the worst headache you've ever had and multiply it by ten. Then add nausea, shaking, and imagine jamming spikes through your eyeballs if you're unlucky enough to come in contact with light. Imagine every tiny sound being like artillery fire in your head and then add some dizziness. That's what he's feeling right now, Tim, and the medicine in that syringe will ease his suffering. Do it, McGee."

Tim blew out a breath and pushed on the plunger until a little liquid shot out of the end. Remembering the alcohol wipe, he put the syringe between his teeth and ripped the wipe open with shaking hands. He swiped it across his partner's skin, noting with concern that DiNozzo barely reacted. He flattened his right hand on Tony's belly and winced when he moaned softly. "I can't, Boss. I can't do this. I wish you were here now."

"I'm not there, McGee," Gibbs said through clenched teeth. "You are. And he's in pain. Only you can help him right now, Tim. Do it. He'd do it for you."

McGee squeezed his eyes shut and forced them open again. He knew Gibbs was right: Tony would do this for him. He took a deep breath and pushed the needle into his partner's skin, felt it sink deep into his abdominal muscle. He emptied the syringe and pulled it free, shuddering at the glistening red drop of blood that clung to the tip of the needle. He shook his head and put the needle out of his sight.

"I did it, Boss," McGee whispered into the phone cradled against his ear. "What do I do now?"

Gibbs fought a sigh. _Really, Tim? For such a smart guy…_ "Comfort him, McGee. He's still hurting. Touch him, talk to him, tell him it's going to be okay."

"Oh."

"I'll be there in a few minutes," Gibbs said. He paused. "You did good, Tim. Thank you."

McGee alternately patted Tony's shoulder and stared at the phone in shock for several long minutes. "He thanked me," he finally whispered.

"Mmmmm, well, he really hates injecting me," Tony said from the floor.

His voice was still laced with pain but it was the best sound McGee had heard all day. "Tony?"

DiNozzo took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out with a low groan. "Shhhhhhhhhhhh."

"Sorry," McGee whispered as Gibbs arrived, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

Both Gibbs and Tony winced when Gibbs' knees popped as he knelt beside Tony's re-curled body. "You'll do anything to get out of a case on a Sunday," Gibbs teased, sotto voce.

Tony cracked a half-smile. "Mmmmmmm."

Gibbs checked his watch. "You ready to move yet? To the couch at least?"

DiNozzo groaned softly in response.

"You get that?" Gibbs asked McGee and got another half-smile out of Tony.

"Bed," Tony said.

"You sure?" Gibbs asked.

" 'S darker," Tony said, trying to prepare himself to become upright.

"Just don't puke on my shoes, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, nodding to Tim, who followed his lead and slid an arm under Tony's still-shaking shoulders. "One, two, up."

Tony gasped and buried his face in Gibbs' shoulder. "Oh please oh please oh please oh please," he whimpered, too focused on not throwing up to be embarrassed.

McGee just helplessly watched DiNozzo cling to Gibbs. Gibbs held him close, supporting most of his weight until DiNozzo stopped pleading and his ragged breathing evened out. "Okay to move?" he asked softly and felt Tony nod.

McGee took his place again at Tony's right side and together they helped him down the hall and deposited him onto his bed. McGee looked around nervously and then bolted for the door, only to be stopped short two steps later by Tony's weak voice.

"Promise you'll respect me in the morning?"

McGee smiled for the first time since entering the apartment. "Of course, Tony."

"Thanks, Probie," Tony said, so softly McGee had to strain to hear him. "For everything."

"You're welcome."

Gibbs sat on the edge of the bed and waited until he heard McGee close the front door. He looked over his curled agent and frowned. "Why didn't you call me? I know your patterns, DiNozzo. Why didn't you tell me when you felt this coming?"

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," came Tony's soft reply.

"DiNozzo…"

"I hate this," Tony whispered.

"I know you do," Gibbs said, his voice low. "But it's not weakness."

Tony snorted. Then: "Ow."

Gibbs smiled softly. "It's not your fault, Tony. It's a medical condition, and you shouldn't be alone when you feel one coming. We've been over this."

"I know."

"So why didn't you tell me?"

Tony sighed, too tired to lie. "It's the weekend. I thought I could get through it without you knowing. I was on the couch all morning. I fell asleep. When I woke up I felt the pain behind my eyes and went to get my case from the bathroom. As soon as I stood up though, it was game over and next thing I know, you're here."

Gibbs watched Tony bury his face in the pillow and knew those few sentences had exhausted him. He decided to let it go—for now. "Call me next time, okay?"

" 'K."

"Good," Gibbs said, patting DiNozzo's leg through the blanket and standing. "Because I don't think McGee can handle that again."

"He couldn't do it?"

"He did it," Gibbs said. "Eventually. But I think it would have been easier to talk Abby into drowning a sack full of puppies."

Tony smiled in the blissful darkness. "Thanks, Boss."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: ** Back by popular demand. Thank you to everyone who reviewed! And thanks for reading, enjoy.

* * *

Gibbs wandered Tony's quiet, darkened apartment and finally ended up in the kitchen, seeking caffeine. He opened a cupboard and smiled at his brand of coffee sitting on the shelf. The little bag had magically appeared shortly after Gibbs' first experience with Tony's migraines. The smile faded as memories of that night came flooding back.

_Flashback:_

"I did tell him that rule, right, Duck?" Gibbs asked. "_Never_ be out of reach. You wouldn't think that would be so difficult. He was a detective a couple months ago, for God's sake. You'd think he'd be able to figure it out."

Ducky gave Gibbs a long-suffering look as the agent paced autopsy. "Now, Jethro, you must calm down. It's a Friday night. Well, Saturday morning now that it's a bit past one. Perhaps the young man has gone out for the evening. Maybe he's at a club like those dreadful ones that our Abigail enjoys. You can't hear anything in those places. I'm sure he'll check his phone soon enough and call you right back."

Gibbs didn't speak; he just glared at a gleaming autopsy table. Ducky found himself almost glad the young petty officer lying on it was already dead.

"You think he's drunk?" Gibbs asked suddenly. "We're on call this weekend and I swear if I find out he's passed out at some bar…"

"Oh, give him the benefit of the doubt, Jethro," Ducky interrupted before Gibbs could come up with any ways to torture the poor lad. "Perhaps he's just a sound sleeper."

Gibbs' eyes lit up at that. "You're right, Duck."

"I am?" Ducky said, not liking the sudden glint in his friend's eyes.

"I'll just go give him a personal wake-up call."

"Oh dear," Ducky said as Gibbs swept out of autopsy. "I hope, for your sake, dear boy, that you are indeed a heavy sleeper."

* * *

"DiNozzo! Open up, dammit! I saw your car in the garage. I know you're in there."

Gibbs pounded on his agent's door, not particularly caring who else he woke up at nearly two in the morning.

"On call means available and in contact, DiNozzo. Open the door."

Gibbs ignored the flicker in his gut at the silence beyond the door and he huffed out a frustrated sigh while fishing his lock picks out of his pocket. "Damn you, DiNozzo," he muttered while glancing both ways down the hall to make sure he was alone. "I'm getting a key from you first thing Monday morning. If you still have a job, that is."

Gibbs made short work of the lock and opened the door, blinking in surprise at the yet unpacked boxes littering the living area. He flicked one of three switches beside the door and a light came on in the hallway, softly illuminating Tony's prone form on the floor.

"Gibbs!" came a strangled cry.

Gibbs quickly took in DiNozzo's fancy clothes and the puddle of vomit beside him and fumed. Maybe he had made a mistake in hiring the Baltimore detective.

"Goddammit, DiNozzo!" Gibbs roared, crossing the floor in two steps and grabbing the agent roughly by the collar. "NEVER be unreachable, first of all. And we're on call this weekend. I think I made that perfectly clear. I would think you would understand that means not drinking yourself into oblivion and passing out on the floor."

"Please… please… Gibbs," DiNozzo gasped.

Hand still fisted in the agent's collar, Gibbs rolled his eyes. "Knock it off, DiNozzo. I'm not going to hurt you. As much as I'd like to kick your ass for this, I'll probably just fire you, you damned drunk."

"Please… please," DiNozzo whispered again.

Gibbs jerked DiNozzo to his feet, making a sharp sound of disgust when the young man swayed on his feet and gasped, "Bathroom. Gonna. Puke."

Gibbs all but dragged him down the hall and into the small bathroom. He watched distastefully as the agent emptied his stomach again while clinging to the bowl. He thought about calling and getting a replacement team sent in but decided to teach his new agent a lesson. He didn't care how many cups of coffee it took, DiNozzo was going to learn something valuable tonight besides drinking in moderation.

"You done?" Gibbs asked without sympathy when the gagging finally stopped.

Gibbs grunted in disgust again when DiNozzo collapsed onto the floor.

"What was that?" Gibbs barked when he realized DiNozzo was saying something over and over again. He leaned down and was surprised to find that he didn't smell cigarette smoke or alcohol on him. _Must be a vodka drinker._ He strained to hear what DiNozzo was panting through clenched teeth.

"Lights… please… lights… off… please."

"You want the lights off?" Gibbs exploded, not caring when DiNozzo flinched away from him, trying desperately to get away from him in the small confines of the bathroom. "If you're gonna beg, you should be begging me not to fire your sorry ass."

"Please… please," DiNozzo whimpered.

"Knock that off," Gibbs growled. "It's pathetic. You're drunk, get over it. We've got a case."

"Not … drunk," DiNozzo whispered so quietly Gibbs barely heard him.

Gibbs barked a harsh laugh, eliciting a shudder from DiNozzo, who had his face buried in the bathmat. "You're not? Really? So not only are you a worthless drunk, but now you're gonna lie to my face? Or to the floor, I guess. Look me in the eyes and tell me you're not drunk. Now, DiNozzo."

Tony lifted his head and pried his eyes open, instantly sending tears down his pale cheeks once the light burned his retinas. "Boss," he said, his agony evident in his shaky voice. "Migraine."

Gibbs blinked, remembering walking into the darkened room and the way Tony flinched away from his yelling and had barely opened his eyes until now. "Aw, hell, DiNozzo," he whispered, immediately shutting off the bathroom light and closing the door against the light from the hall.

Tony couldn't help the soft moan of relief that escaped his lips. He jumped when he heard Gibbs' soft whisper beside him. "What can I do?"

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," Tony moaned, unable to speak actual words until the searing pain from the bright lights eased from his eyeballs.

"Well, yeah," Gibbs whispered, his volume roughly a zillion times lower than during his tirade. "What else? I'm not gonna just leave you here like this."

Tony shuddered and Gibbs had a funny feeling it was more from his kind words than the pain. Gibbs watched DiNozzo try to push himself up, and he put a hand on his shoulder, keeping the weakened man down easily.

"Need…" Tony gasped.

"What? Where?" Gibbs asked, sotto voce.

"Case… top… drawer… right."

Gibbs fumbled in the dark, his hand finally closing around a black plastic case about the size of a paperback book. He popped it open and ran his hand over what was inside, quickly realizing it contained syringes. He suddenly wished he'd brought Ducky.

"I'm gonna need some light," Gibbs whispered.

Tony groaned in response, and Gibbs cracked the door, letting a sliver of light spill into the dark room.

"Let's get you to bed first," Gibbs said, sliding a hand under DiNozzo's arm.

"No, now," Tony begged, not caring how pathetic he sounded. Gibbs' earlier words had stung him badly, and if he weren't in such agony, he'd have thrown the older agent out ten minutes ago.

And with that quiet demand, Gibbs finally realized just how much pain the man was in. "Okay, Tony, okay. How do I do this?"

Tony groaned at the thought of trying to speak enough words to explain. "Alcohol wipe… in case."

Gibbs found the small packet and saw DiNozzo pull up his shirt, exposing his belly. A shaking finger pointed to a spot just to the left of his navel. Gibbs brushed the wipe across the skin, and DiNozzo said, "Prefilled syringe… Push a little out, like on TV."

Gibbs tried to remember the last TV show he'd seen, but he did as he was told, uncapping the syringe and pressing on the plunger until a small amount of liquid shot out of the tip of the needle. He hoped it wasn't too much because the kid obviously needed as much of the stuff as he could get. Gibbs had seen a lot of wounded men over the years, but he'd never seen anyone who wasn't bleeding or beaten in pain like this. And that it was his agent writhing on the floor beside him didn't help the slight tremble in Gibbs' hands. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this nervous.

"Here," Tony whispered, pointing to the spot Gibbs had wiped. "Harder than you think necessary. Gotta get through the skin and into the muscle."

Gibbs didn't miss that DiNozzo gagged on the end of his choked sentence. Nervousness aside, he had to do this. Gibbs didn't bother giving the kid a warning; he just jabbed the needle into DiNozzo's belly and pressed the plunger until all of the fluid had been injected. He pulled the needle out and set the syringe on the counter. He released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and put a gentle hand on DiNozzo's forehead.

A mistake, it turns out, if Tony's shriek was any indication.

Gibbs immediately withdrew his hand with a softly murmured "Shit, sorry." He moved his hand to DiNozzo's shoulder, scooting away a bit when his agent curled into a tight little ball and pressed his hands to his head. Gibbs reached over DiNozzo's shaking body and shut the door, throwing the small room into complete darkness. He stroked gentle circles on Tony's shoulder and wondered somewhat desperately how long the medication would take to ease his suffering.

The silence gave Gibbs time to think about what a bastard he'd been. He remembered telling DiNozzo that he wasn't going to hurt him. _So much for that. Guess I'll have to break the rule on apologies for this one. _He thought about saying it now, but he doubted the kid was in any shape to hear it.

Gibbs shifted uncomfortably on the hard floor and realized DiNozzo had stopped shaking. He whispered, "Bed now?"

" 'K," came the soft reply. "Go slow…"

_Too late,_ Gibbs thought as he pulled the kid to his feet in one smooth movement. He felt the shudder that ran through Tony's body and pulled him to his chest before his knees buckled. He resumed rubbing circles into DiNozzo's shoulder and murmured softly, soothingly. He blinked in surprise when he felt tears soak into his shirt.

As he stood there, Gibbs tried to reconcile the cocky, brash detective he'd hired with the trembling man crying in his arms. He wondered if migraines were like concussions and maybe Tony wouldn't remember this part. For the kid's sake, he hoped so.

Finally, DiNozzo had collected himself enough to start moving toward the door. Gibbs pushed him gently against the sink, propping him there while he slipped out of the door and turned off the hall light. Tony murmured a soft "thanks" as they made their slow way down the dark hall. Gibbs picked his way through the absolute blackness of Tony's room and lowered him onto his bed. He felt a pang of sympathy when he realized the blinds and heavy curtains let not even a sliver of light into the room. He wondered how long DiNozzo had been dealing with the migraines. _And why the hell didn't you tell me?_

Gibbs watched DiNozzo curl up and struggle with the blanket so he helped him with it, covering the trembling young man and giving his shoulder a quick squeeze. _I come here to ream him out for being unreachable and end up tucking him into bed. _Gibbs smiled in the darkness. _You're something else, DiNozzo. _

* * *

Gibbs woke up later that morning to DiNozzo watching him from the hallway. If Gibbs didn't know better, he'd say the kid looked terrified. He asked, "Feeling better?"

DiNozzo nodded slowly. "I'm sorry, Gibbs, I should—"

Gibbs held up a hand as he sat up on the couch. "Listen to me, DiNozzo, because I don't apologize often. But in this case, it's due. I'm sorry, Tony. When you didn't answer, I thought you were out at a bar or something and then when I got here and saw you lying there—"

"In a puddle of puke," Tony said wryly.

Gibbs smiled. "I wouldn't say _in_ it, exactly." The smile faded. "I am sorry, Tony. I must have really hurt you yelling like that and hauling you around."

Tony shrugged and gave a sheepish smile. "It's okay. You didn't know."

"If I were going to yell at you for anything, it'd be for that," Gibbs said, giving DiNozzo a stern look. "You should have told me."

"You're right," Tony said, looking at his hands. "I felt it coming and I knew we were on this weekend. I'm sorry. Did I get us in trouble?"

"Nah," Gibbs said, "I passed it to another team and they— Wait, what? You felt it coming? And you didn't say anything? Goddammit, DiNozzo!"

Tony flinched at his boss's rising volume. "I'm sorry. I should have told you so you could make other arrangements. I screwed up, but it won't happen again, Gibbs."

Gibbs gave him a hard look but kept his volume down when he said, "Hell, DiNozzo. I'm not mad about the weekend duty. It's medical, they'll get over it. I'm pissed because you didn't trust me enough to tell me about this."

Tony wasn't sure what to say.

"You tell me next time you feel one coming," Gibbs said sternly. His voice softened a tiny bit. "So you don't have to go through this alone again."

Tony swallowed hard and nodded, not trusting his voice.

Gibbs rose and headed for the door, but not before picking up a half-full mug from the table and shoving it into Tony's hands. "And get some better coffee. This stuff sucks."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **This thing won't leave me alone. It's marked complete but it lies. I hope no one minds its resurrection. Or its lack of chronology from this point on.

Tony awoke from a particularly vivid dream with a shudder of dread. But it wasn't from the dream, not exactly. He knew his patterns, and from the sick twisting in his stomach, the dream and the fuzziness in his head, he knew this was going to be a bad one.

He checked the clock, noting that it was almost 5:30 on a Tuesday morning. He remembered his promise a couple of months ago to Gibbs that he would call him, and he sighed. He picked up the phone, figuring Gibbs would be up and knowing he would have had to call anyway, promise or not. He hadn't caught the migraine in time to stop it, and he knew it wouldn't be long before he would be gripped by the all-consuming pain. Sometimes he hated this awful knowledge as much as he hated the migraines themselves; that is, until the agony hit full-force and reminded him that nothing was as bad as the actual attacks.

"Yeah, Gibbs."

Tony took a steadying breath and briefly thought about hanging up—and damn the consequences. Gibbs probably had just been freaked out by his condition and likely hadn't even meant what he said about not having to go through this alone. _He's your boss, not your friend, _his long-standing insecurity whispered to him.

But the whisper was like a shriek inside his aching head. "It's DiNozzo, Boss," he said, his voice unconsciously low to ward off the building pounding in his skull.

"Yeah, and?" came the annoyed-sounding reply. It _was_ pretty early.

_This is such a bad idea…_

"I, uh, I have a problem," Tony said, forcing himself out of bed and making his way to the bathroom to get his medication. _Oh, yeah,_ he thought as he closed one eye to be able to see straight. _This is going to be a bad one. _

"So spit it out, DiNozzo."

"I'm going to be late," Tony said, leaning against the sink to steady himself. He wasn't sure if his shaking was from the migraine or his nervousness at admitting his weakness to his boss.

"What the hell?" Gibbs fairly yelled, making Tony flinch at the volume—and the angry tone. "We've got a pile of records to go through on the Johnston case."

"I know," Tony said, pulling the case out of the drawer and tearing open an alcohol wipe with his teeth. The shaking in his hands increased. "But I… Well, I just—"

"DiNozzo," Gibbs barked, making the name sound like a threat.

"I've got a migraine," Tony said, slipping the needle into his skin with a relieved sigh. _Funny how most people hate needles, but I love the pointy little things. _

There was a short silence on the line, and Tony cursed himself for calling—but mostly for thinking his boss might actually care about him. He knew the ache that settled in his chest was from the thought and not a side effect from the medication. _You're so stupid sometimes. You know better than to let people in like this. They only end up hurting you._

"Hell, DiNozzo," Gibbs finally said, his voice immeasurably softer and holding a note of concern that made Tony's gut twist. "I'll be right over."

A flare of panic burned through him as he made his way back to the couch, a steadying hand on the wall the whole way. "You don't have to do that, Gibbs. I'll be fine."

"Did you take your medication?" Gibbs asked, and Tony heard a door shut in the background.

"Yes, dad," Tony answered and then winced. He'd worked with the man less than six months, what the hell was he doing joking like that? He didn't even call his own father "dad."

"Very funny," Gibbs said, a soft smile covering the concern in his voice. "I'm still coming."

Tony sighed, sinking onto the couch and closing his eyes. He belatedly realized he'd forgotten to close the blinds that would keep the rising sun out of the room. He sat up, but a wave of dizziness swept over him and the pain suddenly increased tenfold. He stifled a gasp and buried his face in his hands, the pain gathering behind his left eye like angry thunderheads. _Oh yeah, this is going to be a bad one. _

He realized Gibbs had hung up on him and he set the phone aside, trying to focus on breathing and letting the medication do its job. But the light starting to stream through the window was all he could think about since it was burning through his eyelids and jabbing spikes through his skull. He knew he could wait for Gibbs to get there and ask him to close them, but his stubbornness forced him to his feet. He swayed drunkenly and stood in the middle of the room, waiting for it to stop spinning. White-hot pain stabbed through his head at the change in position and he swallowed hard, trying not to throw up.

A voice drifted through thin walls and he realized Gibbs was on the phone in the hall, obviously coordinating the work on the case. "Yes, I need to be here," Gibbs was saying and Tony could hear keys rattling. It sounded like gunfire and he felt a hard shudder sweep through his suddenly chilled body. "He said he'll be fine, but this is the same agent who got grazed deep enough to need a dozen stitches and insisted he was fine even _after_ I saw the blood leaking through his jacket."

The key Gibbs had demanded shortly after his last experience with the migraines slid into the lock and Tony went automatically to open the door.

He pulled it open and promptly threw up. Gibbs moved back with a bemused expression on his face as Tony clamped a hand over his mouth in horror. Gibbs moved past his agent and grabbed some paper towels from the kitchen, quickly cleaning up the mess while Tony stood, stunned and mortified and swaying like a tree in the breeze. He didn't move until Gibbs returned from the kitchen and put a hand on his trembling shoulder.

"Gibbs, I—" Tony said, unable to finish as the effort to remain upright caught up with him all at once. The pain was making everything blurry and that wasn't helping his equilibrium.

Gibbs just shook his head, saying simply, "Been puked on before, DiNozzo. Don't worry about it."

Before Tony could think about what that could possibly mean, Gibbs said, "Come on. You need to lie down."

Gibbs had barely gotten the sentence out when Tony's eyes rolled back in his head and his knees buckled. The lead agent caught him as best as he could, but Tony's limp body still hit the floor with a solid thump. Thoroughly unnerved and unsure what else to do, Gibbs pulled his cell to call an ambulance, but he suddenly thought about DiNozzo's extreme reluctance during the incident with the graze from the bullet. He remembered how he'd had to order the agent into the ER after a tense argument about trust and responsibility to your teammates. Gibbs shook aside the memories and called the only person he could think of.

"Autopsy," came the doctor's lilting voice.

"It's Gibbs," he said. "I'm at Tony's and he's got a migraine and … I don't know what's wrong. He just passed out cold. Should I call an ambulance? Take him to the hospital? Or just wait him out?"

"And you called me first?" Ducky asked, sounding a bit perplexed.

Gibbs paused long enough to make Ducky wonder if he'd hung up. "Hell, Duck. I feel like he's just finally starting to trust me," Gibbs said softly. "I don't want to ruin that."

"Understandable," Ducky said with an unusual brevity, his thoughts on the patient. "How's his pulse?"

Gibbs, still kneeling, put two fingers to his unconscious agent's throat. "Strong," he said, feeling extremely relieved and realizing just how much he'd come to like the young man—not only as an agent but also as a friend. "A little fast, though."

"And his breathing?"

Gibbs watched for a few seconds, his hand flat against Tony's chest. "Seems normal to me. Like he's just sleeping."

"Try to wake him up. You can try tapping his face," Ducky said. He sensed Gibbs' hesitancy over the line. "What is it, Jethro?"

Gibbs' voice was uncharacteristically nervous. "I don't want to hurt him."

"It's okay, my friend. You won't hurt him. Trying waking him, give him a minute to come around, and then ring an ambulance if he doesn't. Call me back so I'll know where to meet you."

"Thanks, Duck," Gibbs said, hanging up the phone without waiting for a reply. He looked anxiously at his agent, remembering the last time he'd tried to lay a soothing hand on Tony's forehead, only to make him shriek in pain. Gibbs lightly tapped DiNozzo's cheek, giving a loud "Come on, Tony! Wake up."

Tony remained still and Gibbs tried again, wincing as he slapped harder, his voice forceful despite his concern.

"Uhhnnnn," Tony groaned as he started to come around. "Shhhhhh."

Gibbs breathed a genuine sigh of pure relief. "Welcome back, kid," he whispered, watching Tony's eyelids flutter. He seemed to be looking for something. "Tony?"

Tears leaked from the corners of DiNozzo's eyes at the pain from the light and he shut them tightly, curling onto his side.

"What is it?" Gibbs asked softly.

Tony hesitated, but then whispered, "I can't see out of my left eye."

All of Gibbs' concern returned in a rush, like a dam breaking. "Shit, DiNozzo. Come on, let's get you up. I'm taking you to the hospital."

Tony shook his head automatically, then gagged as fresh pain stabbed through his head. He waited until the nausea had passed enough for him to speak. "It's not that bad."

Gibbs made a rude sound. "You just told me you're half-blind. That's not that bad?"

"It happens sometimes," Tony whispered. "Can you…? The lights?"

"Oh hell. I'm sorry," Gibbs said, getting up and quickly closing the blinds tightly, throwing the room into darkness. _It's funny how the rules on apologies don't apply when he's like this_, Gibbs thought, returning to Tony's side. He noted with rising concern the way DiNozzo had a fist pressed against the center of his chest and his breath kept catching in his throat.

"Chest pain?" Gibbs asked, his nervousness coloring his tone. He still hadn't abandoned the possibility of dragging his agent to the hospital, and he suddenly realized he'd forgotten to call Ducky. It would have to wait.

"Yeah," Tony said, making Gibbs blink in shock at the soft admission by his stubborn agent. When he spoke again, his voice was strained. He was obviously still in severe pain. "My neck hurts like hell, too. It's just a side effect of the drug."

Gibbs nodded even though Tony's eyes were clamped shut in the darkness. He pulled his cell and called Ducky back, letting him know they were still at Tony's apartment. Gibbs was glad when Ducky said he was already on his way, and Gibbs was hoping the doctor could convince Tony to go to the ER. In what world did vomiting, blindness and chest pain _not_ mean a trip to the hospital?

"You want to get up?" Gibbs asked, thinking about how uncomfortable the floor must be.

"No," Tony whispered. "It'll just make it worse."

Gibbs frowned with concern, then got up and found a blanket. He covered the curled body of his agent, who had begun shaking uncontrollably. Unsettled by the fierce tremors, Gibbs whispered, "I don't remember you shaking like this last time. Are you sure something's not really wrong?"

"Just different symptoms… Sometimes I get really cold."

Gibbs left it at that, realizing that his nervousness stemmed mostly from not understanding everything that was happening to his agent. He never liked not being in control of a situation, but he pushed down his frustration as he tried to imagine how Tony felt at not being able to control his traitorous body.

Tony started writhing and Gibbs watched helplessly as he started to moan softly. Something nagged at the back of Gibbs' mind, but he found he couldn't think with Tony making those awful sounds. Tony's fist moved from his chest to rest near his head. He suddenly pounded the fist into the hardwood floor and gasped, "It hurts. Goddamn, it hurts."

Gibbs flinched at the raw agony in his voice and realized what was bothering him, besides being able to do nothing to ease Tony's suffering. "It's getting worse?" he said, and it was only a half-question. "Last time it got better after the medication. How long ago did you take it?"

Gibbs wasn't sure Tony had heard him through his fog of pain until he whispered, "Dunno. 5:30ish."

Gibbs checked his watch. "It's quarter after 6. Can you have more?"

"After an hour," Tony said, his voice soft and holding an increasing weakness that terrified Gibbs.

Gibbs looked up to see that Ducky had arrived. The doctor immediately went to kneel beside Tony's shaking, curled body. He kept his voice low when he said, "An hour, indeed, my dear lad. Let's take a look at you."

Ducky put a gentle hand on Tony's face, his eyes growing more concerned when Tony flinched at the contact. "My, you are in rough shape, aren't you? Can you open your eyes? I know it hurts, but I need to make sure that I'm correct in assuring your boss that dragging you off to the hospital is unnecessary."

Tony forced his eyes open, his cheeks burning with shame at the tears that streaked down his pale face. He saw the kindness in Ducky's eyes when he asked, "Any vision problems?"

"Left eye's not working," Tony said softly, unable to take the pain any longer and shutting his eyes again.

Ducky's hand remained gently resting against his wet cheek as he said, "Ah, retinal migraine. Not your first, I assume?"

"Nope," Tony answered, sounding exhausted.

"Just rest, dear boy," Ducky said, giving Gibbs a look. "If you're still hurting in ten minutes, we'll get you some more medication."

"Thanks, Ducky," Tony said, receiving a pat on the shoulder as Ducky got to his feet.

Gibbs followed the doctor down the hall, closing Tony's bedroom door behind them. Ducky looked around the room with interest, noting the dark colors and heavy curtains at the windows. The room was neat except for the unmade bed. The doctor had been slowly realizing as he got to know the young agent that Tony kept a lot hidden under his varying casual exteriors. Looking around the room and realizing he'd expected a similarly casual messiness, he figured it shouldn't be surprising that DiNozzo's home was as polished as any of the many masks he wore.

"Is he really okay?" Gibbs asked without preamble.

Ducky sighed, unnerved by the severity of Tony's pain. He wasn't used to patients who could still feel. "Okay? No. He's in agony. But it's not out of the ordinary for someone suffering from a retinal migraine to experience vision loss, and he said he's been through this before, the poor lad. And the photophobia, the sensitivity to sound, the nausea, the shaking… those are all common symptoms of a severe migraine."

"He passed out cold, Duck," Gibbs said, his concern coming out as frustration. "He was out for well over a minute."

"Ah, yes, that," Ducky said, nodding. "Very unsettling for you—both of you—I'm sure. But really, Jethro, I think it was likely the result of the dizziness that is so common with headaches like these. He came around relatively quickly and was aware and coherent. He just needs rest."

Gibbs was silent, considering the doctor's words and trying to let them calm him. He just couldn't get the way Tony had been writhing in agony out of his head.

"Would you like me to stay with him?" Ducky asked, seeing how thoroughly wrung out Gibbs seemed. "You don't have to stay."

"No, Ducky, thanks. But he's my agent. I'll stay."

Unspoken words lingered between them and they both knew it was important that DiNozzo—who obviously had issues with his sense of self-worth—know that Gibbs cared enough not to hand him off. They had spent enough time with him to know that it must have been hard for him to call and ask for help in the first place.

Ducky nodded. "I'd stay, as well, but I really should get back. I'd hate to keep young Petty Officer Johnston waiting any longer."

Gibbs nodded, following the doctor into the hall. He checked his watch—6:30—as he passed the open bathroom door. He stopped and gave Ducky a sheepish look.

Ducky blinked in amazement and wondered what could make Gibbs look so nervous.

Gibbs kept his voice low, ostensibly to keep from disturbing Tony. "Could you, uh, give him the injection before you go?"

Ducky smiled gently. "Of course, Jethro. I'll go see if he wants it."

Ducky didn't even have to ask as he returned to where Tony still lay on the floor, the blanket knotted in tight fists. As he approached, he realized from DiNozzo's shaking shoulders and wet face that he was crying silently. "Oh, Anthony. Let's get you some more medication."

Gibbs handed Ducky the case, his heart clenching in sympathy at the tears on Tony's chalk-white face. He forced himself not to look away as Ducky made quick work of the injection, using the alcohol wipe and administering the shot with fluid, practiced movements. Ducky murmured a good-bye and went to the door. Gibbs saw him out, glimpsing out of the corner of his eye Tony's furious, jerky swipes at the tears on his cheeks. He wanted to tell him it was okay, but he figured it was better to pretend he hadn't noticed.

Gibbs took a seat on the buttery soft black leather couch, a watchful eye on his charge while his thoughts drifted to what he'd read about migraines after his first encounter with DiNozzo in this condition. He'd found a book containing clinical descriptions and a few first-hand accounts from sufferers and it made his gut twist to think of his agent deeply entrenched in an experience as brutal as those.

Gibbs looked the man over, noting that the shaking had reduced to almost imperceptibility and his breathing was much more even. He was about to ask if he wanted to move somewhere more comfortable when he heard soft words that he couldn't quite make out. He knelt on the floor, leaning down to hear.

"Help?" Tony whispered, a faint hint of anger putting an edge to the word. Gibbs knew the agent wasn't happy with having to ask for assistance. "Wanna move."

"Sure, Tony," Gibbs whispered back, sliding a hand under his elbow and putting the other to the back of his neck and helping him sit up. "Bedroom?"

Tony breathed deeply, trying to adjust to the shift in position. "Too far."

Gibbs nodded. "Okay," he said, gently pulling the agent to his feet and holding his shoulders to steady him as he swayed. Gibbs moved him quickly but gently to the couch, recovering him with the blanket as the shaking started up again. "Do you need anything?"

"So… cold," Tony whispered, and Gibbs went to find another blanket. "Thanks," he murmured, pulling it up around his ears.

Gibbs stood in the middle of the room, suddenly unsure what to do now that he'd done everything he could think of for his agent.

Tony sensed his discomfort. "Don't have to stay. Just have to wait it out now."

"I'm staying," Gibbs said firmly. "You just rest."

" 'S nice of you, Gibbs. Thanks."

Gibbs spent the rest of the day alternately reviewing the case files he'd brought and glancing at the bundled lump on the couch. There was something in the files that didn't quite sit right with him but he couldn't figure out what it was. Gibbs found himself anxious for DiNozzo to be back on his feet so he could toss ideas back and forth with the sharp young investigator.

And with that, Gibbs realized again just how much he enjoyed having Tony as a part of his team.

Even if it meant occasionally getting puked on.


	4. Chapter 4

"Grab your gear!"

Gibbs watched his team spring into action at his barked words—well, two-thirds of his team, anyway. DiNozzo sat, still as a statue, his eyes troubled as he stared at his boss.

"You want your invitation engraved, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, his annoyance and impatience overriding his usually impeccable observational skills. Had he looked—really looked—he'd have noticed the slight shake in Tony's hands and the way he had turned away from the bright light shining through the big windows. Had he looked, he would have seen the pain in his agent's eyes.

Maybe he wasn't looking because he was too busy watching in slight shock as DiNozzo got up without his gear and headed for the stairwell. McGee and Kate exchanged uneasy glances as Gibbs was forced to stalk off after him.

"Get the truck and meet me downstairs," Gibbs barked back to them.

" 'Me,' " McGee said.

"Not 'us,' " Kate said, following his line of thought. They _were_ trained investigators, after all. "Does that mean he's going to kill Tony?"

* * *

Gibbs followed Tony into the stairwell, his frustrated, "What the _hell_, DiNozzo?" booming off the walls in the enclosed space, making Tony flinch.

"Oh," Gibbs said, realizing. "Why didn't you just say so?"

"In front of them?" Tony asked. "They don't know, and I'd like to keep it that way. It's none of their business."

"It is if it gets one of them killed because you're in pain and can't focus," Gibbs said simply, but his eyes were boring into Tony's squinting ones.

Tony barely kept his jaw from dropping. "_I'm_ the one who said I couldn't go."

"No, actually, you didn't ever say that," Gibbs returned.

"I'd think you would understand nonverbal communication, Boss," Tony said, ignoring the building pain and trying to focus on the argument. "You're probably itching to headslap me right now."

Gibbs let out a breath in exasperation. He said, much more softly, "I'd never hit you when you're like this."

"Like this?" Tony said, incredulous. "Is that anything like 'in my condition'? I'm not pregnant, Gibbs, and I'm sure as hell not fragile."

Gibbs scoffed, hitting his limit on patience for the month. "Really? 'Cause I thought that was you crying on my shirt that first night. I must be mistaken."

Tony flinched as if he'd been slapped, and Gibbs knew it wasn't because of his too-loud volume.

"Tony, I didn't mean that—"

"Yeah, you did," Tony interrupted, his tone as blank as his face. "It's fine. You're right. I'm weak and pathetic, and I should have known better than to let you see that."

"Calm down, DiNozzo. I don't have time to do this with you, and you know the stress will only make it worse for you."

Tony laughed in his face at that. "Wow, really, Gibbs? You've been reading up on this, huh? I'm touched." And if he hadn't been so angry, he probably would have been.

Gibbs turned to leave, but Tony couldn't help himself. "Do me a favor next time. Don't bother. I'm fine, and I can take care of myself. Have been for a long time—long before you decided you give a shit about me."

Tony stopped finally, realizing Gibbs was gone. It took his sinking to the step and putting his head in his shaking hands to notice the shiny key at his feet.

* * *

Tony made it all the way to his car before the blinding pain hit him like a runaway bus. Knowing he couldn't drive, he crawled into his back seat, curled up and waited for the agony to either end or finally kill him. He thanked all things holy that he'd given himself an injection before his bout with Gibbs.

He couldn't get Gibbs out of his head any more than he could force himself to get up as he lay there, grateful for the relative darkness of the parking garage. Tony knew he'd been out of line and pretty much a total jerk, but he couldn't bring himself to blame it all on the pain. White-hot pokers through the eyeballs notwithstanding, he'd never been good at having his weakness thrown in his face.

He thought about the key in his pocket and tried not to throw up. He told himself it was from the pain and nothing more.

* * *

"Hey, McGee, wait up," Tony called later that night.

McGee turned slowly and gave him an appraising look. Tony just hoped like hell that he didn't notice his paleness or ask where he'd disappeared to all day. He fished the key out of his pocket and tried not to flinch at its shiny sharpness.

"What's this?" McGee asked, taking the offered key warily, as if it might attack.

"To my place," Tony said, unable to meet McGee's eyes. _This is such a bad idea._ "Just in case. Partners should have each others' keys."

McGee nodded slowly, his eyes searching Tony's face and obviously finding nothing there. McGee turned to leave without saying another word and Tony could have kicked himself—both for obviously unnerving the hell out of the young agent and for not realizing Gibbs had watched the whole scene. He returned to his desk and tried to quell the shaking that had sprung back up at seeing his boss's unreadable face staring back at him.

Tony picked up a file and hoped Gibbs would just leave. He knew it was wishful thinking.

"You want to tell me what that was all about?" Gibbs asked, moving to stand in front of Tony's desk in the deserted office.

A thousand witty comebacks and jokes and snide comments popped into his head, but he said none of them. "I'm sorry about the way I acted earlier, Boss. I was a complete jackass and I'm sorry."

Maybe it was the leftover paleness, or the slight tremors in his hands he was trying to hide under his desk, or maybe it was the lingering pain and slight sadness Gibbs heard in his voice. But mostly it was sharp images of Tony curled on his floor, writhing in abject misery, that made him abandon his anger and say, "Don't worry about it, DiNozzo. It's partly my fault, too. I knew you were hurting and I started a discussion I knew should have waited."

Tony wasn't sure what to say to that so he soldiered on, hoping Gibbs wouldn't yell at him for apologizing too much. "And I'm sorry about the key. I'll get you another one."

Tony felt hugely relieved when the corner of Gibbs' mouth quirked up. "It's fine. I'll just pick the lock again if I have to."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Here's a random one for you. Completely AU (as if this whole thing isn't...) and it doesn't really matter when it's set. Written at 3 a.m. so strap on your mental kevlar... you might need it!

* * *

"Hit me."

"What? No. Shut up, DiNozzo, and let me think."

"Hit me. Just do it. It'll be better this way."

"I'm not hitting you. You've got two minutes to come up with an actual plan that might get us out of this mess."

"You could try hitting me."

Gibbs lifted his hand to headslap his agent and almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of it. He couldn't hit him. And the reason he couldn't was why they were in this predicament in the first place—at least partially. Gibbs chalked up the rest to sheer dumb luck. Sheer _bad_ dumb luck.

"Listen to me, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, attempting to sound patient. He mostly sounded like this drill instructor he'd once had back in … _Damn you, Ducky. _

"No, Boss, you listen," Tony said, and Gibbs could hear the pain threading his voice, could see the way he was tilting his head like he always did when it was starting to get bad, the way he was squinting slightly in the dim light. "We barely got away from those maniacs. They have our guns, our phones, my knife, all thirty of your knives, and they're going to start searching these warehouses. They're not going to stop until they find us. And with this migraine and with_out_ medication, I'm going to be your very own personal locator beacon in a little while here. I'll be a white flag, an audible smoke signal—I mean, I might as well tag our asses with GPS and send them a link, okay? Hit me, Gibbs. Hit. Me."

"DiNozzo," Gibbs said, sighing. "I'm now going to waste what little time we may have left explaining to you why I can't hit you. Ready? Too bad. First, I meant it when I said I'd never hit you when you're like this. And be quiet about that, because we've had that conversation. Asked and answered; it's over. Second, you probably have a concussion from how hard that damned thug hit you when they grabbed us. You were out for well over a minute and don't think I don't know that that's what's causing your migraine to pop up like this. Third, I know you've got some sort of hero worship thing going on with me, but I'm not Superman. I have no idea how hard to hit you to knock you out but not kill you. And contrary to office gossip—and that uptight wench from HR—I really don't want to kill you, DiNozzo."

" 'Hero worship'?" Tony said, considering that. He nodded. "Yeah, maybe. But it wasn't the knock to the head that caused this, Boss. It was the guy's skunky cologne. I wonder if the poor bastard even knows he smells like he crash-landed into the cheap end of the Macy's counter."

Gibbs ground his teeth. "This is why I think talking's overrated. Did you even listen to any of what I said?"

"Did I not just quote you?" Tony joked, but Gibbs could hear the increasing pain, could see him shaking even though he was sitting on his hands to try to hide it.

"I'm not going to hit you," Gibbs said with finality. "What we are going to do is get the hell out of here before they find us."

Tony looked at Gibbs sadly, having to look up to where the older agent was crouched beside him in their hiding place. He almost threw up with the slight movement of his aching head. _Speaking of locator beacons…_

"You know _we _can't get out of here, Boss. Somehow, I don't think I have to tell you that it's already bad, and getting up and strolling around is not an option. I can't walk out of here, and I'll just slow you down. And I'm sure as hell not going to lead them to us… to you. Hit me, Gibbs, or leave."

Gibbs' eyes hardened as he spat, "I will _not_ leave you here to die, Tony. Shut. Up."

"Look, Gibbs," Tony said, knowing they were running out of time. Keeping his eyes open was excruciating but he didn't close them. This was too important. The pain could suck it—for now, anyway, while he was still lucid enough to be brave. "You've seen me with migraines before. With the medication, I moan and shake and cry and generally embarrass the hell out of myself. You ever seen me without it? For long, anyway? Yeah, no, you haven't. I scream, Boss. Bet you never thought I'd admit to being a screamer, right? But seriously, I scream and curse and scream until my throat is so raw I can't make a sound. And then I scream some more. Hit. Me. Just hit me."

Gibbs didn't speak for a moment. Then, "Close your eyes, Tony."

DiNozzo heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Boss."

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to hit you, DiNozzo," he said, exasperated. His tone softened a bit and he told himself it was so their would-be killers wouldn't find them. "It's killing you to look at me. Close your eyes."

Tony made a rude noise that sounded suspiciously like a gasp of pain. "I'm sure someone along the way has told you you're easy on the eyes, Boss."

"You've officially lost it," Gibbs said, shaking his head and biting down on a smile. The thought of their attackers finding them wiped the smile away. "We need to be quiet now. Lie down. I'll put my hand over your mouth if you start to make noise."

"When, Gibbs, not 'if'," Tony said, remaining stubbornly upright but closing his eyes. He didn't like it. He needed to be all here for a discussion this important. Voluntarily blinding himself to Gibbs' expressions left him literally in the dark and stripped him of an important negotiation tool. "_When _I start screaming."

Gibbs might have reacted to that. Tony had no idea. His eyes were blissfully closed, but he felt sick when he realized it barely helped the agony starting to rage in his head. He thought about the needles he kept strapped to his ankle in a custom-made pouch lying shattered on the dirty ground where the meathead had stomped on them. He'd lick that shit up right now, if he could.

"Then I'll stuff a sock in your mouth," came Gibbs' simple reply. The man really did have an answer for everything. Though it wasn't _always _the right one. "I don't" would have been a wiser response to several "I dos."

"That's unsanitary," Tony murmured, the low volume of their whispers echoing around in his throbbing head like deafeningly bad techno at a rave attended by elephants—on pogo sticks.

"Stick a sock in it, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, and Tony flinched.

"I'm dying," Tony whispered. "You just made a joke, Gibbs. I'm dying, for sure."

Gibbs didn't speak.

Tony's voice was low for a multitude of reasons when he spoke again. "Gibbs? Listen, would it help if I told you there's another reason I want so badly for you to hit me? Reason number one is so you don't get killed because of me. And that should be enough. But because you're you, I'll give you another. And reason number two is much, much more selfish. I want you to hit me because it's gonna get bad. Real bad. It's already bad, but it's going to get worse. It's been a long time since I've done this without the meds, and it's not something I want to go through again. I'm scared, Gibbs."

Gibbs' heart twisted at Tony's soft admission. But he also wasn't new at this. He knew when he was being played. "I'm not going to hit you."

"It's gonna hurt, Boss. It already does. I can't do this."

_What's the law-enforcement version of the Oscars?_ _Wait, that's not fair. It _does _get bad. I know that. I've held him in my arms and felt him cry. And that was _with_ the shots._

_If he's going to fight dirty, I guess I will, too._

"You're the strongest person I know, Tony," Gibbs said softly, watching DiNozzo flinch and knowing that particular one wasn't from the pain, although it must be getting close to unbearable by now, if his beginning to writhe was any indication. "I'm here. I'll get you through this."

Tony slid down, curling on his side, and took several deep breaths before he was able to speak. "Please hit me. Just hit me. Please."

Gibbs was beginning to hate the word "please"—as if he'd ever liked it before. But it was something DiNozzo said a lot in the throes of his migraine-induced agony, and it served only as a reminder of how helpless Gibbs felt when Tony was hurting and he could do nothing about it.

"Shhhh," Gibbs soothed, his hand automatically moving to the back of Tony's neck. "Don't talk."

"Then punch me in my big mouth and shut me up. Please, Gibbs. Please. It hurts."

"I could break your jaw."

Tony mumbled something that might have been "You'd probably enjoy the ensuing weeks of silence."

He said, "So aim for the temple."

"I could kill you."

"I've heard _that _before," Tony managed to joke just before the daggers of pain began sharpening themselves on the backs of his eyeballs. "Oh shit. No. No, no, no, no, please."

In the end, it wasn't the pleading that got him. It was the silent tears drenching his pale cheeks—and the shaking. He'd been through this with DiNozzo before, several times. Gibbs was no probie, for sure. But he'd never seen Tony shake like this, his whole body jerking rhythmically, probably painfully. Gibbs knew that in rare cases, migraines could cause seizures, and that was what ultimately made him do it. He got down to Tony's level.

"Tony? You with me?"

He was surprised when DiNozzo opened his eyes—and thoroughly jolted. The suffering in those green depths nearly took his breath. "I'm going to make this stop, okay? I promise I'll keep you safe while you're out."

The trust overriding the pain in Tony's eyes made Gibbs' chest tighten. Tony opened his mouth to speak and found he couldn't get a sound out other than a low moan. Gibbs moved around behind him, slowly bringing him upright and supporting him with his back against Gibbs' chest. Tony felt a flare of panic as Gibbs' arm closed around his neck with an impossible gentleness, but it was soon gone as understanding dawned.

Gibbs could feel the pulse in his wrist pounding against the one in Tony's throat. "Shhhh. It'll be over soon," he whispered as he applied firm, steady pressure to the arteries there.

He waited a few seconds after he felt DiNozzo go limp in his arms. "I'm sorry, Tony."

* * *

Tony sat on the edge of his desk in the squad room, surrounded by his team. He was grinning widely at Ducky, who was examining his throat with an intensity usually reserved for the dearly departed.

"Told ya," Tony said, only slightly creeped out by Ducky's inspection. He was mostly happy to be alive—even if it wasn't for long, considering the death glare Gibbs was giving him at his retelling of the story. "He didn't even leave a mark."

That wasn't exactly true, though. Gibbs _had _left a mark—a livid red splotch marred Tony's cheek where Gibbs had slapped him to rouse the unconscious agent once he realized McGee had found them—before the would-be killer maniacs. Gibbs would never admit it, but he didn't think he had actually breathed until Tony's eyes had popped open at the sharp contact.

"Woke up without the headache, too," DiNozzo was saying. "Screw the meds; I'm just going to get Gibbs to choke me out next time. Save some serious cash, too. That stuff's expensive."

"No you won't, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, giving him a look and a half-smile. "Just wait until you get my bill."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Another one set pre-series—because it's fun. I'll probably go back through these someday and arrange them into some kind of order… Maybe… who knows? But enough about me…

* * *

There was a shattering of glass and a curse, and Gibbs found himself suddenly awake. He blinked a few times in the darkness and remembered where he was: a hotel in the middle of nowhere—with DiNozzo, who was apparently breaking things.

He didn't blame the young agent, though, because the case that had brought them here had been brutal and disgusting and had involved a small child. He just wished DiNozzo had waited until they got home to start breaking mirrors. It was hard to explain these things to accounting.

Gibbs sat up, still deciding whether or not to ream his agent out—and leaning toward not. The case had been horrific, and while neither of them were strangers to senseless, heartbreaking violence, Gibbs was starting to learn that DiNozzo did a lot of hiding behind his carefree, happy-go-lucky façade. He wasn't happy about the method—punching mirrors was painful and he hoped the kid had at least used his left hand—he was glad that he was showing some sort of emotion. And getting it out.

Gibbs hauled his tired body out of bed to go check on his agent and see if he needed stitches. He hoped not—for DiNozzo's sake and his own. They were both beyond exhausted, having spent several days and nights chasing down leads. Gibbs wondered if Tony had gotten any sleep at all before getting up to release his fury on inanimate objects.

He doubted it, thinking back to a few hours ago when they had finally been able to collapse onto the lumpy hotel beds.

_DiNozzo fidgeted and tossed and turned until Gibbs asked, "Something wrong over there?"_

"_I'm sorry, Boss," came the tired reply through the darkness. "It's just every time I close my eyes…"_

_Gibbs was quiet, and Tony waited for him to yell at him for apologizing—or keeping him up. "I know, DiNozzo. Me too."_

Gibbs knocked lightly on the bathroom door. "You okay in there?" He frowned when the only reply he got was the sound of retching.

"Tony?"

Gibbs opened the door to find his agent throwing up, his bloody right hand gripping the toilet bowl. A quick glance to the right showed the mirror intact. But there were also bloody fragments of a syringe on the counter. Gibbs recognized it as one of the ones containing DiNozzo's migraine medication and realized his mistake.

He kicked himself, realizing too his earlier error when he'd attributed the young agent's shaking hands to emotion and/or exhaustion. He flipped the lights off and hoped like hell that DiNozzo packed more than one syringe.

"Sorry, Boss, didn't mean to wake you," DiNozzo whispered, the words jumbled among his gagging.

"Couldn't sleep anyway," Gibbs said simply, not moving from the doorway as DiNozzo wiped a hand across his mouth, flushed the toilet and leaned back against the tub. Gibbs was slowly learning to let Tony tell him what he needed in situations like these. Gibbs generally liked taking the lead in most things, but he didn't mind handing over the reins if it gave DiNozzo some semblance of control when his body decided to turn traitor.

DiNozzo wasn't talking now, though, his head in his shaking hands as he tried to get his breathing under control. So Gibbs took charge, wetting a wash cloth and pressing it into Tony's hands. He watched DiNozzo wipe his mouth—and the smeared blood off the side of his face.

"In your bag?" Gibbs asked, sotto voce.

Tony nodded, groaning softly at the movement. His eyes were clamped shut at the pain searing his exhausted brain, but he knew what Gibbs was asking. It felt like someone was trying to pull his brain out through his eyes. He sighed a half-moan of pure relief when Gibbs returned with the case in his hand. The sliver of light passing through the cracked door sent daggers of pain slicing through his eyes and he closed them tightly again. He gagged again—but it was from the grisly memories of a body too young to have the word "corpse" defining it.

The pained, choked cry that caught in his throat sent shards of mirrored pain through Gibbs' heart and he whispered, "I know, Tony. I'm sorry."

DiNozzo had the funny feeling Gibbs really _did_ know.

"If I close the door, will you be able to keep your eyes open?" Gibbs asked softly.

_Damn he's good, _Tony thought, trying to wonder around the brutal, razor-sharp pain how his boss knew him so well already.

"No," Tony choked out, feeling warm blood from his cut hand running down his wrist. "But thanks, Boss, I—"

"Let's do this, okay?" Gibbs interrupted gently—and Tony thought he heard the impossible in the older agent's voice: nervousness.

Tony nodded, then groaned at the dizziness and spikes of agony at the movement. You'd think he'd learn not to do that, but honestly, talking hurt just as badly.

Gibbs withdrew a syringe from the case, ignoring the tremor in his own hands. "Can you do this or do you need me to?"

Tony took two long, slow, deep, shuddering breaths before he was able to speak. "Can't. Tried," he panted, holding up his bloody hand. "Shaking too hard."

"Okay, Tony," Gibbs whispered, trying not to feel guilty when Tony flinched away from his soft voice. He had never known until DiNozzo and his migraines that you could stab someone with whispered words, even the most muted volume causing as much pain as a blade.

Gibbs was still kneeling beside Tony, and he uncapped the syringe and expelled a tiny bit of fluid. He turned back to his agent. "Here, let me help you lie down."

Tony flinched again—but Gibbs noticed it was at the words "help you" and he wished he could get the stubborn young man to stop being so guarded, to stop thinking of his condition as being his fault.

But now was not the time for that. Gibbs could tell by the increased shaking and ragged breathing that DiNozzo was already fiercely entrapped in the wicked embrace of the pain.

Gibbs put a gentle hand on the back of Tony's neck and slid the other under his elbow, guiding him slowly onto his back. He felt the shudders wracking the agent's body and his heart broke for his suffering. Gibbs used the alcohol wipe and, pushing his nervousness aside, slid the needle into DiNozzo's belly, frowning when Tony hissed in pain as the needle breached his skin.

"My fault," Tony choked out. "Too tense," he said before Gibbs could apologize for hurting him.

Tony curled into his familiar battle stance, and Gibbs reached down to take his hand, wincing as he made contact with the glass embedded in Tony's fingers and palm. DiNozzo seemed not to notice, and it made Gibbs sick to think that the injury, which was still bleeding freely, was rendered inconsequential by the ferocity of the agony in his head.

"I need to look at your hand," Gibbs whispered, wincing again when DiNozzo simply moaned in response. He tried to get a look at the damage in the muted light. The worst cut was in his palm and the piece of glass there was big enough that Gibbs could pull it out with his fingers. Tony tried to pull his hand away, but Gibbs' was locked around his bloody wrist, holding him firmly. He murmured an apology, not caring one bit about breaking his own rule.

Gibbs pressed his hand against the wound, deciding the rest of the cuts and embedded glass could wait until the medicine kicked in and DiNozzo stopped writhing. Gibbs toed the door shut, smiling faintly at Tony's sigh of relief.

Gibbs sat quietly beside his curled agent, still gripping his wounded palm and knowing that if Tony were lucid enough, he'd probably be embarrassed by the hand-holding. He watched his shaky breathing and hoped the agony would abate soon. As much as Gibbs hated injecting Tony, he really hated this part—when all he could do was watch and wait, providing comfort with whatever touching Tony would allow.

DiNozzo shuddered hard, the jerky spasm wringing a groan from low in his throat, and Gibbs hoped this wouldn't be one of the bad ones that required two doses to ease his suffering. Tony's free hand moved to the back of his neck, and Gibbs knew from previous experience that the medication sometimes caused painful cramping. Gibbs brushed Tony's hand aside and pressed gentle fingers into the knotted muscles.

"Gibbs," Tony protested, embarrassment coloring his tone.

Gibbs was glad for _this _discomfort, though, because it meant the meds were working. "You're hurting, Tony," he said softly. "Let me do it."

Tony gave in, allowing the soothing touch mostly because he was too exhausted to fight. He lay quietly, feeling increasingly sleepy as the medicine worked its blessed magic. He was just about to slip into a wholly welcome, healing sleep when Gibbs spoke.

"You're bleeding pretty bad. I'm going to go get the kit from the car, okay?"

"Mmmmm, sure," DiNozzo said sleepily, feeling Gibbs' hand leave his neck.

The lead agent got up and went to the car, trying not to feel bad knowing he'd probably interrupted the rest DiNozzo so obviously needed. But he also knew that Tony—for all his hiding and misdirection—had let slip enough to make Gibbs realize the cocky young agent had some truly deep emotional scars. Gibbs hadn't wanted to let Tony wake up on that bathroom floor alone and thinking Gibbs had abandoned him.

He returned to find DiNozzo sleeping soundly, and his calm, even breathing was music to Gibbs' ears. He left the door slightly open to give himself enough light to tend to Tony's injuries. The cut to his palm could use a few stitches, but Gibbs wasn't about to wake him and drag him to an ER. He just taped it up and decided to let Ducky handle it when they returned later that morning.

Gibbs found a pair of tweezers in the kit and picked the rest of the broken glass from DiNozzo's fingers, holding the agent's wrist firmly when he shifted in his drugged sleep. Gibbs cleaned the wounds and bandaged the hand, wondering if he should try to get him up and into bed.

The peaceful expression on Tony's face made him leave him where he lay. He went and pulled a blanket from the bed and covered Tony's curled body, settling in beside him to start writing up the horrific case.

* * *

Later that morning, Gibbs settled behind the wheel, a sheepish Tony in the passenger seat. Gibbs wanted to smack him and tell him for the tenth time that there was no need to be embarrassed by a condition he had no control over.

But he knew Tony would brush it off with a piece of self-depreciating humor so he just said, "I heard the glass break and thought you'd punched the mirror. Wouldn't have blamed you if you had. It's been a bad one."

Tony smiled, thanking his lucky stars for the thousandth time that Gibbs had offered him this job—even if the job itself was heartbreaking at times.

He just said, "Wish you'd been right. Would probably have hurt a hell of a lot less."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Thank you to everyone who has been reading and reviewing this random little series. I'm shocked and humbled at the response! Oh, and time setting? Let's go pre-series again. Ready? Go!

* * *

"Wow, Tony, you are wasted," Abby yelled over the pounding of the music. "I never figured you for a lightweight. You've had like two drinks."

Tony debated, looking—okay, squinting—into Abby's eyes. She looked amazing tonight, her pleated black skirt short enough to turn the heads of every man in the place. The skull-and-crossbones shirt and collar kept some from looking twice, but screw them. _Judgmental douchebags. Oh, right, Abby was talking. _

And he was debating telling her that he'd had a shot before she'd met him at the club. Some shots? Okay, a couple… a half-dozen? He didn't know so he figured it was bigger than a breadbox. _No, wait…_

"Tony?" she asked, looking into his slightly unfocused eyes.

"I'm good," he said, slurring badly.

Realization dawned in her pretty green eyes and she touched his arm. "Oh, Tony. I'm sorry. The case. Those poor kids. I saw their bloody clothes—how small they were and how… bloody. But at least I didn't have to see their bodies, what that maniac did to them. Why didn't you say something? We didn't have to come tonight."

"You wanted to see your friend's band," he said, feeling the dance floor tilt and roll before returning to its normal, stationary position. He wondered drunkenly how it could come unanchored with all those people hopping up and down on it. He wanted to close his eyes, but he knew he couldn't. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to again. There was not enough liquor in all the bars in the world to erase what he'd seen. He knew it had been a bad one when Gibbs had encouraged him to join Abby, letting him leave early and saying, "Go, DiNozzo. You shouldn't be alone tonight anyway." He felt his gut twist as he thought about Gibbs alone in his basement. He wondered if a boat counted as company.

"And I wanted to get shit-faced," he continued, remembering he was in the middle of a conversation. "I think it's working quite well for both of us."

She frowned, obviously concerned, and opened her mouth to yell back at him over the driving beat of the music.

But he beat her to it, yelling, "Dance with me, Sciuto. Your wicked moves will help erase the images. Please?"

It wasn't the verbal plea that got her. It was the one she saw in his tormented eyes. She grinned back at him, taking his hand and leading him into the middle of the pulsing crowd. No better way to lose yourself than being buried in a bouncing mass of humanity. She realized he was right: He needed to feel life after seeing what he'd seen, needed activity, noise to drown out the thoughts of cold, silent death. The light system in the club was throwing bright colors across the sweating faces of the partiers, the swirling pinks, greens, blue, purples, reds reflecting off the paleness of his face. She chalked it up to the images she knew he was seeing even with his eyes open.

They moved easily, falling into a familiar rhythm even though they hadn't known each other very long. Abby had just been so glad someone finally agreed to go clubbing with her that she didn't care that it was the cocky young detective who sometimes got on her nerves with his brashness. The more time she spent around him, though, the more she suspected that the lascivious looks and big talk were a front, hiding a rather sensitive soul that she got glimpses of only when he thought no one was looking.

The song ended and the music slowed into a number not conducive to frenetic bouncing. Abby started to move toward the bar, having figured out that Tony didn't like dancing to slow songs. She thought it odd that he didn't mind her hands on him when they were moving to something fast and loud, but he had tensed up when she moved in closer to touch him during one of the slower ones.

It made her think back to the first time she'd hugged him. He'd gone from grinning widely, talking about how he'd escaped the clutches of their most recent psychopath, to going stiff as a board at her full-contact embrace. She'd pulled back to find an impossible shade of fear darkening his green eyes. Only Gibbs' subtle warning glare had stopped her from apologizing until she was blue in the face for upsetting him, but it hadn't stopped her from wondering what had been done to him to make him react so strongly to a gesture meant to be comforting.

Knowing all that, she was surprised when he reached out and took her hand, pulling her back into his arms. He looked down at her and asked, "Okay?"

"Of course," she said, realizing that without her platforms—which she'd stopped wearing while clubbing after a string of twisted ankles—that she fit perfectly against him, her cheek resting against the hard muscles in his chest as they swayed to the (relatively) soft music.

Her eyes closed as she leaned into him, thoroughly enjoying the feel of his hands on her hips, his toned back under her fingertips. His grip tightened slightly on her hips, and she shivered and had her first sexual fantasy starring one Anthony DiNozzo. Okay, maybe not her first, but definitely her most vivid. She forced her eyes open, banishing the hot, sweaty images even though she was thoroughly enjoying them. She really did like him, so much so that she didn't want to ruin their friendship this early in the process.

She focused on his movements and realized he was shaking. Those tiny, bloody clothes flashed through her mind and her heart clenched in sympathy for him. She pulled back and grabbed his hand, leading him toward the edge of the crowd. The dance floor was a perfect place for losing yourself in the music, but not a good place for just plain losing it.

As they made their way to the door, Abby glanced back at him and could have sworn he was in actual physical pain as he followed her silently. She let go of his hand to dig out her keys, and because she was looking down, she didn't even see the man who reached out as he passed her and grabbed her arm.

"Hey pretty lady," he breathed into her face. "I think I'm gonna tie you up tonight. Whatcha think about that?"

She had barely processed his rancid, boozy breath when he was pulled out of her face, slammed against the wall by a Tony so furious she barely recognized him.

His tone was dangerous and she knew she was seeing a side of him usually reserved for the field when he growled, "I think you should learn to keep your hands to yourself."

Abby actually winced at the rage in his eyes as he pinned the man with a glare that would have made Gibbs proud. She put her hand on his arm, knowing he wasn't in a good place to be feeling emotions this intense. "Come on, Tony. Let's go," she shouted over the music. She gave his arm a tug, knowing he was struggling not to release his pain and frustration on this jackass. Even though the guy probably deserved it, Abby couldn't let Tony go down for murdering this scum. She pulled again, feeling the increased shaking in his taut muscles and praying he'd give in to her. "Please, Tony."

He nodded, but leaned back in so the dirtbag could hear his low, menacing words. "You even think about doing that again, I will take you apart and even the best damned dogs in the state won't be able to find all the pieces of you."

Tony released him and headed for the door. Abby sighed in relief until she caught sight of the man, his face red with embarrassment and anger, following them to the door. She was just about to shout when the guy reached out and grabbed Tony's arm, spinning him around and punching him hard in the face. Abby heard the crunch of the cartilage breaking in Tony's nose even over the loud music coming from the other end of the bar.

She watched in stunned silence as Tony slugged the man and leaned over him as he fell, drawing back to pound him into oblivion.

"Tony, don't," Abby said, her soft voice cutting through his rage in a way shouting never could. "He's not worth it."

Tony straightened, flashing his badge at the bouncers who came rushing over at the commotion, and headed for the door. Abby followed him out into the humid warmth of the night, making a face when she saw him spit blood onto the sidewalk. She approached him slowly, cautiously, not because she was afraid of him—even though she'd never seen such intense rage in him before—but because he was hurt and she didn't know how he would react.

"Tony?" she said tentatively, watching him cup a hand over his face, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He leaned against the wall and tilted his head back. "No, lean forward," she said, still not touching him. "It's bad to swallow the blood."

He did as she said, sounding stuffy when he asked, "Can we go now? Can you…? I can't drive."

She nodded. "I have my car. I'll take you to the hospital."

He shook his head and closed his eyes at the pain. "No, Abbs. I'm fine. I just want to go home," he looked up guiltily. "Or to your place. You don't have to take me home. I can get a cab if you want to go."

She listened to his choppy rambling with concern. "Tony, he broke your nose. You need to get that looked at."

"Abby, please," he said, spitting more blood. She pulled a tissue from her coffin-shaped bag and held it out to him. He took it and wiped the blood from his lips. "Thanks. But I'm not going to a hospital. It's not displaced… they won't do anything anyway."

She debated, thinking about calling Gibbs, knowing he could force the agent to go get checked out. But he looked so tired and had to be in pain and she hadn't forgotten his earlier shaking. "Okay, fine. But I'm taking you home. And no arguing. We're going to your place."

His relief was written plainly across his bloody face as he followed her to her car. He got in without a word, the tissue pressed to his nose. "I'll try not to bleed all over," he said, and she handed him another tissue.

"Mighty kind of ya," she drawled, hoping to get at least a tiny smile out of him.

It worked.

They rode in silence, and Abby noticed the bleeding had mostly stopped as he unlocked the door and let her in. She'd never been to his place before and was surprised to find it neat and tidy, the furniture sleek and dark. She wasn't surprised by the huge TV or the countless movies in his collection, but a frown touched her face as she realized those were the only personal items in the room. There were no photos of family or friends, nothing to reveal any more about the young former detective who had protected her without a thought about his own safety.

"I'll be right back," he told her, heading down the hall. "Make yourself at home."

She blinked, thinking he would at least let her help him, but then not surprised at all that he hadn't. She marveled that he could be so kind and open one minute and so guarded the next. She heard an odd clatter, like glass on tile, and a curse and almost went to him. He came out of the bathroom a minute later and she noticed he hadn't cleaned his face. She frowned, going to his kitchen sink and wetting a wash cloth.

"Sit," she ordered, pointing to a chair at the small table, and he complied. She gently cleaned away the blood, unnerved by his silence, closed eyes and continued shaking. She went to the freezer and grabbed a bag of frozen peas, noting he didn't have any ice cubes. She wrapped it in a towel and put it into his hand, seeing that he hadn't opened his eyes yet. She didn't say anything though. He was probably in pain. She glanced down at his hand and winced at his scraped knuckles. "Are you okay, Tony?"

His eyes opened and she thought she saw him shudder before he closed them again. He was starting to scare her and she thought again about calling Gibbs.

"I'm fine, Abbs. Not my first broken nose. You don't have to stay."

She stayed silent, unsettling him more than if she'd suddenly sprouted wings and jumped out the window to cruise the District from on high. He said quickly, "Or you can stay if you're too tired to drive. How much did you drink? You probably shouldn't have driven here."

She shook her head even though his eyes were still closed. "I only had one."

The short answer made him open his eyes. He didn't like the concerned way she was staring at him.

She hesitated, then said, "I want to stay. I know you're fine, but I just… want to. Okay?"

"Sure," he said, standing. His cheeks flamed bright red as he swayed and she stood to steady him. "Sorry, still pretty drunk. I'll get you something to sleep in."

She watched him practically bolt from the room and waited for him to return. He was taking an awfully long time, so she made her way down the hall, stopping short as she passed the bathroom and heard him gagging. She winced as she knocked softly. "Tony?"

"I'm okay, Abbs," he called, sounding stuffy because of his nose. She tried to imagine puking like that and she shuddered. "Just had too much to drink."

"Okay. Let me know if you need anything," she said through the door. She turned to head back to the kitchen, not even noticing there was no light coming from under the bathroom door.

She opened his fridge, pulled out a bottle of water and returned to the bathroom. She didn't hear any sounds from inside, and she glanced down and noticed this time the lights were off. She moved to his bedroom, wondering if he'd just gone to pass out. She didn't blame him—he was drunk and hurting and haunted by the senseless murders of those children.

She started to seriously worry when she didn't find him there and went back down the hall, stopping when she heard a soft moan. She opened the bathroom door and squinted through the darkness, seeing Tony lying on his side.

She went to flip on the lights, wholly confused, and even more so when he whispered, "Don't. Please, Abby, leave them off."

She nodded, stepping into the room. She caught sight of the syringe on the counter and breathed, "Shit, Tony. What the hell?"

His eyes were closed again and he didn't see her staring at the needle. Her mind was racing, thinking there was no way Gibbs knew about this. There's no way he would have hired a drug addict. She tried to think back, wondering how they all had missed the signs. She knew he was good at hiding, but she had never suspected that _this _was what he was keeping from them.

He was reaching toward the counter from where he lay curled on the floor. "Abby, need…"

She snatched the syringe up, even though he couldn't reach it. Her voice was low and furious when she said, "No, Tony. You don't need it. Whatever the hell drug it is, you do not need it." She laughed softly and saw him flinch. "I can't believe I even thought I liked you. You're just another damned junkie cop."

She turned to leave, taking the needle with her, but stopped cold at his softly spoken word. "Migraine."

Her hand flew to her mouth and she turned, shocked and stunned and feeling horribly guilty. "Oh my god, Tony, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I'm sorry. Of course I didn't know, I never gave you a chance to explain and oh my god, Tony, I'm so sorry."

He cracked a smile at her despite his pain—both from his head and his broken nose. " 'S okay. But please? I need…"

She looked down at the syringe in her hand and nodded, her eyes finding the open case on the counter. She grabbed an alcohol wipe and knelt beside him. "Where?"

"Stomach," he whispered, matching her low tone.

She nodded, used the wipe and slid the needle into his belly without even a blink. Tony smiled; of course someone with as many tattoos as she had wouldn't mind a little needle. He breathed slowly, carefully through his mouth, his eyes closed as he waited for the medication to end his agony. He felt a soft wet cloth against his face and realized he was bleeding again. "Thanks, Abbs," he murmured, the words muffled against the fabric.

"Shhhh, don't talk," she said, thinking back over the night. His shaking and squinting and pain-filled eyes suddenly made perfect sense, and she cursed him quietly, gently. "Goddamn, Tony. You knew this was coming all night. Why didn't you say something?"

He didn't want to talk because he knew it would just exacerbate the stabbing pain in his skull, but he figured he owed her. " 'M sorry. Won't happen again."

She sighed and he imagined feeling her soft breath slamming against his head like a hurricane battering the coast. "Shhhh, don't worry about it. Just feel better. I'll stop talking now."

"You know about migraines," he whispered, and it wasn't a question.

"Yeah," she said, "a cousin. Seriously, though, stop talking."

She settled beside him, her back against the wall and his head in her lap. She rubbed his shoulder gently, desperately wishing he'd stop shaking. She remembered helping her cousin through a bad migraine and winced at the thought of her new friend in that kind of agony. She could hear his breath catching in his throat and she squeezed his shoulder but did not speak. She knew that even the most softly whispered words would be like pouring hydrochloric acid in his ears.

She slid her foot sideways and pushed the door shut, throwing the room into complete darkness. She heard him sigh contentedly and she smiled. Her cousin had once told her that exposure to even dim light during an episode made his eyes feel like they were trying to claw their way out of his head.

Abby sat quietly, stroking and waiting for him to stop shaking. Slowly, the shakes faded to intermittent tremors and he made her jump slightly when he said, "This is so not how I imagined the night ending."

She grinned in the darkness. "Oh yeah? How did you imagine it?" she asked coquettishly.

"Um, well, maybe something like this," he teased, and she just somehow knew he was kidding. "But without the migraine, drug addict accusations and broken nose."

She winced. "I'm really sorry, Tony. You didn't deserve that. I'm sorry."

She felt him shrug, which was impressive considering his position. "It's okay. I think I accidentally got you back for it."

"Huh?"

"I'm pretty sure I bled all over your cute little skirt."

"Oh," she said, stifling a yawn and patting his shoulder. She smiled. "Good thing I know a really good formula to get the blood out."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Possible spoilers for the Season Two episode "Eye for an Eye"—the one where Kate and Tony go to Paraguay.

* * *

"Come on, DiNozzo. Really?"

"Yes, Kate, really. I just want to go to bed. I'm tired."

"Geez," Kate said, sighing. "You are no fun. Well, if you change your mind, I'll be down at the hotel bar… checking out the hot Latin lov-ahs."

He smiled faintly at her grinning face, wishing he could go with her. It would really be fun—and not to mention probably enlightening—to hang with Kate outside of work and watch her let her hair down.

"Have fun," he said to her back, noticing appreciatively how nice she looked with her hair spilling down that toned back. Her light blue top showed off shoulders shaped into splendor by all those yoga and pilates classes.

_Stop_, he thought. _Rule No. 12 still applies outside of the country—and with the boss thousands of miles away. _

Besides, even if they could… if she wanted… he couldn't. And not just because he loved her like a sister. He couldn't anyway because of the killer migraine bearing down on him, casting furry shadows around everything in his vision. The pain had taken up residence in the right side of his head, and he pressed a palm against his temple and had to sit to keep from falling over as the dizziness hit full-force like a blow to the backs of his knees.

_Get up,_ he ordered himself as the first wave of churning nausea washed over him. _Get up now—while you still can. _

He sat with his eyes shut tightly, a shaky hand pressed to his roiling belly, and thought about the little black case tucked into his bag that he'd stupidly left in the bathroom with Kate while she got ready. He suddenly wished he'd been traveling with Gibbs—that's one guy who wouldn't take forever and a day to get cleaned up and changed. And even if Gibbs had suddenly developed a fetish for bath salts and scented candles, Tony knew he could just bang on the door and tell him what he needed.

He hadn't been able to do that with Kate because she didn't know about his condition. And he needed to keep it that way.

So he sat silently, breathing through the pain and trying to force himself to get up and retrieve the medication that would end the agony.

A part of him knew he had been stupid, letting his stubborn pride keep him from just knocking on the door, consequences be damned. He liked Kate, and looked forward to working with her for a long time, and he knew she would find out eventually.

Deciding to just get it over with, he pushed himself up, only to lose his battle with the swirling dizziness and fall over, hitting the floor with a dull thud. He pressed his fevered cheek into the ugly carpet, shutting his eyes against both the light Kate had left on and the dizzyingly disgusting pattern of the scratchy rug. He took a deep breath and pushed himself to his knees, determined to get to the case while he could still move. He winced at the thought of injecting himself with his hands as shaky as they currently were. _That's gonna hurt._

He thought about the cell in his pocket. He could call Kate and ask her to come back, to help him.

_Right, _he thought, the word dodging the knives swinging dangerously sharp through his agonized brain. He had crawled before. He would do it again.

He made it about halfway to the bathroom door before collapsing—not an amazing feat considering the dimensions of the small room. Tears pried themselves out of his clamped eyelids, and he buried his face in the crook of his elbow, hating the sound of the pathetic whimpers he couldn't hold back.

_Call her_, the rational, logical, smart, decidedly _un_-male part of his brain screamed.

"Shhhhhhhh," he moaned at himself, wondering if he should be worried about his sanity.

He felt his breathing start to hitch and knew he'd be sobbing outright if he didn't get to his needles, and fast. He was suddenly, overwhelmingly grateful he had skipped dinner because he knew that was the only thing keeping him from throwing up.

"No, please, no, shit, please, help me, please, shit," he moaned to the ugly carpet.

Hard, convulsive shaking joined his tears, and he suddenly thought about the time Gibbs had covered him with that soft blanket and comforted him with a gentle hand on the back of his aching neck. The memory only made him cry harder, and he felt disgust join his agony. He just wanted it to be over.

_Call her. While you still can. _

"Shut up," he choked out, his own soft words like a thousand nails on a chalkboard in his pain-filled head.

_Screw the needles. Where's my gun?_

The sound of the door opening was like a car backfiring an inch from his head.

"Tony?"

She spoke his name, that single word carrying a multitude of emotions: shock, fear, concern, confusion, incredulity. He didn't blame her for that last one. It wasn't every day that you returned to find your fellow big, bad special agent coworker faceplanted, crying on a hotel room floor.

"Lights off," he begged weakly. "Please, Kate."

She flipped the switch immediately, glad to be able to do something to help him. She knew she would do anything to take the absolute agony out of his shaking voice. She tossed her purse onto the bed and quickly moved to his side, laying a hand on him and blinking in surprise at the tears slipping from under his dark lashes. He flinched at the contact.

"Tony, what's wrong?" she asked, wondering how he'd gotten so sick in the short time she had been gone.

"Shhhhhhh," he gasped as her words cut into him. "Migraine, please, shhhhhhhhhh."

She sat back on her heels and nervously watched him shake, wondering what exactly she was supposed to do. She whispered, "How do I help?"

"My bag, bathroom," he choked. "Black case."

She got up and went to find what he wanted—well, needed, she figured, considering the rough shape he was in. She fought down her fear as she dug through the bag, looking for the case. She didn't know much about migraines, except that they were like really bad headaches, and she figured she would be revising that description after this experience. Tony was one of the strongest people she had ever met and to see him reduced to this shaking, crying, utter helplessness scared her more than she wanted to admit.

Her hand found the case and she pulled it out, sighing when she realized what it contained—and the location of the bag in relation to DiNozzo's condition. She rose, her face twisted into a tight frown, and moved back into the other room.

She knelt beside him, noting with concern that his shaking had increased in the short time she had been away. "You stupid, stubborn _man_," she whispered harshly and immediately felt contrite when he flinched hard. She realized that she had hurt him with her words—physically hurt him—and lowered her voice. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, Tony."

"Please, Kate," he whimpered, his elbows bent in front of him, palms grinding into his eye sockets as if he were trying to shove the pain out through the back of his head. "Take the—"

"Shhhh," she said, pulling out an alcohol wipe. "My aunt's diabetic. I know how to do this. Where?"

He pulled up his shirt, and she nodded, quickly administering the shot and setting aside the needle. She noticed her fear had subsided a bit while she had something to do, when she could do something to help him. Now that that was taken care of, she found her panic rising again as she realized the medication didn't bring instant relief of his suffering.

She moved around behind where he lay curled on his side, letting his back rest against her knees as she rubbed his shoulder soothingly. The sensation of the quivering in his taut muscles combined with the drink she'd had downstairs made her thoughts wander into decidedly un-Rule 12 territory. It wasn't like she wasn't attracted to him, she thought as she shoved aside images of their sweaty limbs tangled in stiff hotel sheets, but she was a professional and she knew they both needed to keep their relationship that way. _Can't blame a girl for fantasizing_, _though,_ she thought, indulging a minute longer in the imagined feel of her hands on his body.

His very real shaking under her hand brought her sharply back into the present. "Are you cold?" she asked, making her voice puppy-dog soft so as not to hurt him again.

He groaned in response and she got up from the floor and grabbed a blanket from the bed. She felt her heart twist in sympathy at the blatant agony written across his handsome features as she covered him and resumed her position. She put her hand out to continue her gentle rubbing and felt her cheeks burn. She felt suddenly ashamed that she had been entertaining sexual fantasies while he writhed in pain.

She touched him again, her hand light on his shoulder, and she noticed the shaking had subsided slightly. She breathed a sigh of pure relief, hoping he was feeling at least a little better. Anything had to be better than when she'd walked in and found him crying in perfect misery. She grimaced, thinking about how embarrassed he must have felt, but then realized she doubted he was feeling anything right then besides agony.

The embarrassment would come later, but Kate was determined to shrug it off with a DiNozzo-worthy joke and deflection. The poor guy was feeling bad enough, and while she enjoyed their shared teasing, she knew this wasn't the time or place for it.

She sat quietly, just being with him and hoping he would start feeling better soon. She jumped a little when he finally spoke, but she also felt a rush of relief at the sound of his voice. A quiet Tony was seriously unnerving.

"Kate?" he asked sleepily. "Why'd you come back?"

She smiled in the darkness. "It was boring down there. I thought it might be more fun to come hang out with you."

He snorted lightly and said, "Normally I love pointing out when you're wrong, but…"

"Shut up, DiNozzo," she said, but she was still smiling. "Are you okay to move? Do you want to go to bed?"

She could _hear_ the grin on his face. "I thought you'd never ask."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **This one's a monster—and it has some language in it. Beware. I'm letting its time setting be a bit of a "Choose your own adventure" but it has some cues. Take your pick.

* * *

Gibbs came back from a coffee run and stopped short at the sight of his senior agent leaning against his desk.

"DiNozzo!" he barked and watched the agent jump. "I told you to go home. That headache making you go deaf, too?"

DiNozzo glared, flicking a glance at Ziva and McGee. "I'm fine, Boss. Caught it in time. Took my medicine like a good little agent and now I'm fine."

Gibbs ran appraising eyes over the man. He wasn't nearly as pale as he had been and he wasn't squinting. His head didn't have the tilt to it like it did when it was getting bad. But Gibbs' eyes still caught his tell.

He tried to bark, but memories of DiNozzo curled in agony softened his tone. "Tony, you're shaking."

Tony's eyes dropped to his hands, which were trembling ever so slightly. _And they say your eyesight's going… Okay, well, no one actually _dares_ to say it… _"Residual," he said dismissively. "It'll pass. My head doesn't hurt at all."

Gibbs just stared at him, and DiNozzo had the sudden overwhelming urge to hide behind his desk before those sharp blue eyes gutted him where he stood.

McGee and Ziva watched the exchange warily, as if the two were wolves circling and might suddenly decide to band together and go after weaker prey. Tony felt their prying eyes on him, and it sparked a fiery anger in him. He saw his ire mirrored in Gibbs' glare.

"DiNozzo, with me."

"Gibbs, can I speak with you elsewhere?"

They spoke at the same time and both nodded, stalking off without another word.

Ziva looked at McGee and shrugged. "At least they agree on something."

* * *

"I don't get it, DiNozzo," Gibbs said when they were alone, in an actual conference room this time. It made Tony wonder if the emergency-brake cables in the elevator had finally snapped—and who had been sent plunging down to their untimely demise.

"Don't get what?" Tony asked, his anger having cooled, leaving his voice as blank as a fresh sheet of paper. "That I don't think it's fair for you to bench me when I'm perfectly fine?"

"Are you?" Gibbs asked sharply. But he noticed his agent didn't flinch at his volume. The subtle shake in his hands had subsided on the walk over.

Tony looked hurt for a split-second, and Gibbs knew it wasn't the headache. Tony's eyes went blank, matching his tone, and he said, "Yes. I told you I'm fine."

Gibbs figured he was actually was, but he couldn't help scoffing at Tony's words. " 'Fine'? Well, excuse me if I don't just take your word for it. You said you were fine within weeks of almost dying from the plague."

Tony flinched that time. But it was at the memories—not of endless hours of gasping what he thought would be his last painful breaths but at the memory of losing Kate so soon after. Some days, he didn't know how he had survived the physical and emotional trauma of those few weeks.

Some days, he wasn't sure he had.

Like this day, as his boss stood there and ripped his heart out. "So you're saying you don't trust me?" he asked, trying—and mostly failing—to keep the hopeful anguish from his voice.

Gibbs blinked in surprise. He opened his mouth but closed it again, wondering how Tony could think he didn't trust him. That wasn't what this was about. It was about protecting the younger man from his own stubbornness. _Wasn't it?_

Tony's eyes were flat when he turned away. "I'm going home."

Gibbs watched him head for the door, saw the tension in his shoulders despite the emotionless tone. "Tony, wait—"

"No, Gibbs," he said, not turning. "I gotcha. Loud and clear."

Gibbs stared at the door for a moment, oddly wishing Tony had slammed it on his way out.

It didn't matter, though; Gibbs had felt that soft click like a gunshot anyway.

* * *

Tony sat on his couch a few hours later, still in his suit and tie. He was staring at the blinking light on his phone, and he knew the messages would all be from Gibbs. Rule No. 3 flashed through his head in bright neon letters, but he ignored it. He had vague memories of Gibbs apologizing to him during his battles with the migraines, so he figured the rules didn't apply now, either. Not with him "like this." God he hated that phrase. It was too much like "in his condition."

_I don't have a "condition." I have a traitorous freakin' brain that hates me. _

_Like Gibbs._

_No, get it right. He doesn't hate you. He just doesn't trust you. How is that somehow worse? I wish he'd just slapped me or something. And not one of the oddly reassuring headslaps, either. Like an open palm to the face, a make my eyeball feel like it's going to pop free from its anchors slap. _

_At least this pain would make sense then. _

Tony found himself wishing he hadn't caught the migraine in time to stop it. He was shocked to find himself thinking that at least then he'd have something to distract himself with. Maybe the physical pain in his head would force his mind away from the agony in his soul.

At least the migraine would hurt less.

The phone lit up again, the soft tone making him jump. The bright little light telling him he had another message made him squint and he wondered if this would be one of the bad ones that came back despite the medication.

Maybe he would get his wish after all.

He picked up the phone, wondering if this message would contain anger or just expectant silence. He had gotten several of each already so he was stunned when he heard the actual message Gibbs left him:

"_Will you please answer? Or call me back? I'd come over there and pick your locks, but I can't. Listen, Tony, I didn't mean to hurt you, okay? I trust you. Completely. I thought you knew that. But you're scaring me. I know you're pissed at me, but will you please call me back? You don't have to talk to me. Just call and let me know you're okay. Or call Abby? I know you don't want to talk to me, but please, Tony? I need to know you're all right."_

Tony almost smiled at the muffled "_Goddammit"_ just before the message clicked off. But he didn't. He was too busy just staring at the phone in shock. _Maybe he didn't think I'd actually listen to it?_

Something from the message was nagging the back of his mind, but he couldn't focus because he had never heard his boss sound like that. He had never, in all the years they had worked together, heard Gibbs plead. Had never heard him sound so… upset. Tony felt a guilty little flash of pleasure at Gibbs' unsettled state. _Serves you right,_ he thought, but then felt a rush of shame. _He's obviously worried about you. That means he cares, right? Maybe he doesn't trust you, but he also doesn't want you lying on the floor in agony. _

_Then why isn't he here?_

Tony's eyes snapped open and he raised his head from where it rested in his hands.

"_But I can't."_

Had they caught a case? Was there any other reason he couldn't?

Tony picked up the phone and started dialing Gibbs' number, but he stopped. Gibbs had been right: He didn't want to talk to him. Tony dialed Abby instead.

"You selfish son of a bitch," she answered, her words like a punch in the gut.

"Abby? What? I don't understand—"

"Of course you don't," she spat over the line. "You weren't here."

_And that's _my _fault?_ "Abby, calm down," he said, starting to worry. There wasn't much that could unsettle the Goth quite like this. He wondered again if the team had caught a case.

"Well excuse me if it's hard to be calm after being in the hospital with Gibbs," she said, her anger still there, but it had been joined with worry. "Not everyone can be as cold as you."

"Abby," he breathed, feeling tears sting the backs of his eyes and not knowing which of her words had caused their sudden appearance.

"No, Tony," she said, the anger winning the battle for control of her voice. "You don't get to be upset. You know what? Stay away. I don't want to have to look at you right now."

"Abby," Tony whispered, shocked he could actually speak.

She must have heard the pain in his voice because he heard her sigh. He could barely think for all the thoughts slamming through his head. He focused on breathing past the vise clamped around his aching chest.

"Abby, please," he said softly when he had regained the use of his voice. "Please, just tell me what's going on. What happened?"

He heard her sniffle and he almost threw up at the soft sound. She finally said, "They got a case. Chased a suspect. Guy hit him upside the head with a chunk of wood."

Tony gulped. "Abby, is he…?"

"Okay?" she supplied, her harsh laugh making him flinch. "No, he's not. He's got a concussion and he's freaking out over you."

"Abby, I don't—"

"He left, Tony. Signed himself out AMA and took a cab home."

"And you guys let him?" Tony cried, incredulous, as he looked around for the keys he'd thrown across the room just hours before.

"Let him?" she repeated angrily. "Well considering he was alternately threatening to fire and shoot us, yes. We let him. And followed him home, but apparently he does have locks on that door of his."

"You've got Ziva," Tony said. He might have laughed at the image of Gibbs barricading himself inside while they stood guard like a SWAT team outside. But he was too terrified. "Have her pick it."

"You didn't see him, Tony," Abby said, managing to sound scared and accusing at the same time. "Even Ducky thinks we should leave him. For now."

"I'll be right there," Tony said, shutting the door behind him.

"Don't," Abby said, sounding tired. "There's no point. You can't do anything we can't."

"You're wrong, Abby," Tony said resolutely. "There's plenty I can do."

"Like what?" she asked, testy again.

"Break down the damned door."

"And if he shoots you?"

"Then the ambulance can take both of us to the hospital," he said evenly.

"This isn't funny, Tony," she reprimanded.

"No, it's not," he shot back. "But he's been there for me when I needed him. I'm just returning the favor."

* * *

They really were just standing outside Gibbs' house.

Tony visibly flinched when Abby refused to even look at him. Ducky was the first to speak to him.

"Anthony," he said, the worry in his eyes turning to relief and back again in quick succession. "I know I can't stop you from going in there. And I'm glad for that. But please, please be careful. He has a very bad concussion and he's not quite himself."

Tony was shaking his head. "He won't hurt me, Ducky."

The doctor didn't speak, but his eyes were still deeply concerned as Tony turned to Ziva. "Give me your lock picks."

She pulled them from her pocket but didn't hand them over. "Are you sure this is wise?"

His eyes widened. "Wise? Yeah. It is. A whole lot more so than letting him stay in there alone."

The recrimination was obvious in his words, his tone.

"You're going to just walk in there?" McGee asked, his disbelieving tone making Tony wonder just how bad Gibbs was.

"Uh, yeah," Tony said, moving toward the front door.

He made quick work of the lock, feeling all their eyes boring into his back. The deadbolt took a bit longer, but he got it open and turned the knob, entering the house without a second's hesitation.

No one spoke for a moment outside.

Then Ducky quietly said, "Attaboy, Anthony."

* * *

Tony walked through the darkened house, more terrified of finding his boss in serious trouble than of taking a bullet. He tried the basement first and felt his fear skyrocket at finding it deserted. He moved quickly back up the stairs and paused, his excellent hearing picking up a soft sound from the back of the house.

He moved down the hall and stopped at the bathroom door. "Boss?" he called softly, half-expecting gunfire in return. All he got was retching in answer, though.

He shoved the door open and felt his jaw drop at the sight of his boss leaning over the toilet, throwing up violently. Tony saw the bruise darkening the side of his head from his temple down past his cheekbone. There were small cuts floating amid the sea of bruising, and Tony winced in sympathy.

"Fuck me," he breathed, watching Gibbs slump back against the wall, his bleary, unfocused eyes widening as he finally recognized his guest.

"No thanks," Gibbs slurred.

Tony stepped closer and flushed the toilet. He turned and crouched in front of his boss, keeping his voice low. "Not a good way to convince me you're not dying."

"Go 'way."

"Sorry," Tony said, meaning it. The poor guy looked miserable. "But that's one order I won't be following."

Gibbs just glared at him—as best as he could while squinting with the one eye that wasn't swollen half-shut. Tony got up and wet a wash cloth, kneeling again beside his pissed-off boss. Tony found it pretty amazing that the man could convey that much anger in his rough shape.

"How's ya head?" Gibbs slurred, trying to bat away Tony's hand that gently rested on his damaged cheek and missing by a good six inches.

Tony snorted, wincing when Gibbs flinched at the harsh sound. "Fuck of a lot better than yours."

Gibbs' good eye narrowed at him. "Wass wi' ya mouth, DiNozzzzo?"

Tony took a second to translate the garbled speech. "I'm from New York. It's how we talk up there. I tend to revert in times of crisis." He frowned at his boss's rapidly blinking eyes and winced again, this time at the dampness on Gibbs' cheek. The man's eye was watering buckets, but he didn't seem to notice. "You know that."

"Ssould he'slap ya," was Gibbs' sullen response.

"Don't think it would hurt this time," Tony said, abandoning all of his self-preservation instincts and wiping the wetness from Gibbs' face.

Gibbs blinked up at him for a moment during which Tony was worried he was going to throw up on him. "_Been puked on before," _he heard his boss saying. Tony figured he owed him one—or six.

But all Gibbs said was a soft, heartbreaking, "Could ne'er hurt you, Tony."

Tony felt his chest squeeze tighter than an asthmatic's and worried he might join Gibbs in the puke 'n' rally. He never had been good at dealing with intense emotions. "I know, Boss," he said quietly. _Ah, hell with it. Let him shoot me. _Tony reached down and squeezed one of Gibbs' shaking hands. _As if he'll even remember any of this anyway. At least I hope he doesn't remember this… or that message… for his sake. _

"Wan' geddup," Gibbs mumbled after a moment. He didn't seem aware that Tony was gripping his hand almost as if trying to stop its trembling. Tony hated to admit it, but it was scaring the hell out of him to see his boss like this.

"Okay," Tony said, setting aside the cloth. Gibbs' eyes had stopped watering, but he still looked positively green. "We'll go slow."

Tony looped strong arms around the weakened agent and pulled him gently to his feet. He felt Gibbs' knees buckle and quickly propped him against the sink, supporting most of the older man's weight. He felt Gibbs' entire body shaking against his, and he tried to shove down his fear.

Tony didn't move until Gibbs started to shift restlessly in his arms. "Na mushuva hugger, T—Tony."

DiNozzo smiled, easing Gibbs toward the door. He had one arm around the man's waist, one cupped under his elbow, and was suddenly glad for his size advantage over his boss. Even though he knew how much Gibbs hated that he had to look up ever so slightly to meet his eyes. Tony often found himself slouching just the tiniest bit right before he gave in to the other man's authority.

Tony steered Gibbs down the hallway, feeling rather proud that they hadn't ended up in a heap on the floor yet. About half-way to the bedroom, he felt Gibbs shudder. "You want to stop for a minute?"

" 'M fine," Gibbs said, trying to move but feeling thoroughly frustrated when DiNozzo didn't budge.

"Just give it a second. We've got nowhere to be," Tony said softly, keeping his volume down because he knew what a killer headache from a concussion felt like.

"Dammit," Gibbs protested weakly, struggling in DiNozzo's iron grip. "Lemme go. 'M fine."

Tony figured it was better to use Gibbs' energy to get him to bed than to fight him so he started moving again, supporting almost all of Gibbs' shaky weight. "It's okay, Gibbs. I've got you," he soothed.

"Kinda hate you, ri'now," Gibbs said, sounding somewhat dazed.

Tony flinched, the words calling up his earlier pain at Gibbs' lack of trust in him. He pushed it away though, as he pushed open the bedroom door. He wasn't the one who needed reassurances right now. And he was the one with Gibbs right now when the others were standing terrified outside—and Gibbs was allowing him to be here when he'd threatened the others. It made Tony realize Gibbs really did trust him.

Tony deposited Gibbs onto his bed and started to pull the man's shoes off. Gibbs kicked weakly at his hands, but Tony won out easily. He finished getting his boss settled, trying not to freak out at the pale face, the sweating, the shaking, the soft groan when Tony bumped the nightstand with a small crash.

Satisfied there was nothing else for him to do, Tony pulled his cell and called Ducky, feeling kind of silly knowing the man was standing just outside the door of the home.

He could hear the relief in Ducky's tone when he said, "Anthony. Thank goodness. May I come in now?"

"Yeah, Ducky," Tony said, his tone matching the doctor's. "He's good now."

"And only one of you requires my services?"

Tony stifled his laugh so as not to aggravate Gibbs' head. "Yeah. Just one of us."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Let's say Season Three...

* * *

Tony sat in the dark blue Charger, waiting impatiently and watching—both for the dirtbag killer they were hoping would show up in his old neighborhood, and for Ziva. She had called to say she would be late and would meet him at the surveillance point. That was an hour ago.

His phone rang, and he cursed when he saw an NCIS squad room number instead of his partner's name.

"Ziva there yet?" came Gibbs' bark, sans greeting.

Tony winced at his angry tone. "Not yet, Boss."

_It had better be a damned good excuse, Ziva_, he thought. _Like someone's dead. Or someone _will_ be dead. _"You really think French's gonna show up here?"

Gibbs made a little growly noise that told Tony he knew exactly what he was doing. But he said, "This was the place he lived the longest. He's got family here."

Tony snorted, spotting a figure in the distance but noting it was an old woman. "That'd be reason enough for me to run screaming in the opposite direction."

"Yeah, well, maybe French has an actual relationship with his family."

There was a short silence, and Gibbs kicked himself for taking out his frustration at Ziva on Tony. He knew the holidays were hard on his agent, having to hear all about everyone's plans with their families. And it being December 24 made it a bad time to toss out such a thoughtless, hurtful comment.

Gibbs was considering actually apologizing when Tony said, "Sucks to be him, then. Bet my Christmas gift list is a hell of a lot shorter. Speaking of which, thanks again, McGee, for the gloves. These are warm as hell. Must have been expensive, too. You didn't have to get me anything."

"Thank Mr. Gemcity," McGee said over the speakerphone with a smile.

"Either way," Tony said. "Thanks for giving them to me early. It's like 5 degrees out here."

"Are you two done?" Gibbs growled. Tony heard a slight crash and felt bad that McGee was stuck tracking cell phones while Gibbs went over financials on their suspect to try to guess his next move. Being trapped in the office with an angry, frustrated Gibbs was never fun—and Tony knew McGee had canceled holiday plans with his family. It's why Tony volunteered to freeze his ass off, hoping Gibbs would let McGee go for the night. _So much for that brilliant plan. _

"Done, Boss," Tony said, fighting a sigh.

"I'm coming down there," Gibbs said.

The unspoken "I don't want you facing this maniac alone" would have been kind of touching—except that Tony wasn't sure he wanted to face a furious Gibbs alone, either. He saw a figure jogging toward him and breathed that sigh—in relief—at Ziva's familiar green coat flapping in the freezing night.

"Boss?" he asked, hoping he hadn't hung up on him.

"What?"

"She's here," Tony said, hoping he was doing a good enough job masking his relief—both at seeing his partner and realizing he wouldn't have to face Gibbs, for a while anyway.

Ziva got in the car—along with about a gallon of some strong perfume that made Tony's stomach flip over.

"What the hell?" he cried, his eyes immediately watering as she slammed the door. He almost wished she had left it open because freezing to death was better than the overwhelming scent.

"I am sorry," she half-yelled, not sounding exactly contrite. "I spilled my stupid perfume this morning. A great way to start a day that ended with some idiot slamming into my car just outside my apartment. My _parked _car. The moron had the nerve to wish me a 'Merry Christmas' after giving me his information." She scoffed in disgust. "You stupid Americans and your insular thinking!"

"Don't you mean stupid Christians?" Tony ventured, coughing and trying not to gag on the smell.

She glared at him and he let it go. It was a fight he would not win. Besides, his eagle eyes picked out another figure about halfway down the dark alleyway. It was a male, and a glance to Tony's right told him Ziva had seen the man, too.

"That our guy?" he asked, squinting into the darkness. He wiped his eyes to get the water out of them.

She shook her head. "No. Too small, too old."

He glanced at her again.

"What?" she snapped, seeing the look.

"Nothing," he said. "Sorry."

She huffed out a breath and looked at him for a long moment. "Tony, I am sorry," she said finally, drawing his eyes to hers for a quick second before they went back to scanning the alleyway.

"It's no problem," he said.

She rolled her eyes even though they were both intently watching for their suspect. "You do not even know for what I was apologizing."

"Nice job not ending your sentence with a preposition," he commented. He smiled at her glare. "What? I figure I spend enough time correcting you that I should compliment you, too, when you get it right. But maybe I'm just another moron in the holiday spirit."

She studied his face, unsure if he was being serious or not. "That is what I am apologizing for."

"Oh, fail on that one," he murmured, not looking at her.

"Tony, I am serious," she said. "It is Christmas Eve, and while I do not celebrate, you probably had plans for tonight that did not involve killers and smelly, cranky partners. For that, I am sorry."

He didn't tell her he didn't have plans for tonight because he didn't want to further upset her—mostly because he felt bad about her car. He knew she loved the vehicle, even if she drove it as though _trying_ to wreck the thing at every turn. "Don't worry about it, Ziva. I've got plenty of Christmas cheer for the both of us."

She eyed him, thinking it a testament to his undercover skills that she almost believed him and his happy tone. He glanced at her, reading her features to see if she had bought his plastic-as-a-fake-Santa sentiment. As his eyes came forward again, he winced at the sudden stab of pain in his left temple.

_Shit._

"Are you all right?" she asked, watching the blood drain from his face. "Tony?"

He breathed through the searing pain that had popped up like a Whac-A-Mole and closed his eyes when it felt like someone tried to club the furry game-mole into submission. _Big mistake_, he thought, gagging on the cloying smell as he breathed deeply, as if trying to replace the pain with oxygen.

"Tony?" came Ziva's voice again, and he put a hand to his stomach, hoping he could force it back down out of his throat.

She sounded worried, and he forced himself to speak. "No better time to share a secret than the season of giving," he panted, dismayed at how hard it was to talk already. Migraines brought on by smells were often some of the worst, but he'd never had one spring up this quickly. He had also never sat in a freezing car with an angry Israeli and a bucket of perfume, though.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, an impossible shade of panic creeping into her tone.

"I get migraines," he admitted, sneaking a glance at her and nearly throwing up at the pain of opening his eyes even in the darkened car. She mostly looked confused. _Goddammit. What the hell's the Hebrew word for "headache so intense I want to die"?_

"Headache?" she asked, and he heard her confusion even though his eyes were mercifully closed again.

"Times twenty, with nausea, dizziness, shaking, sensitivity to light and sound," he rattled off, but the string of words left him gasping for breath. "Hurts so bad I want to shoot myself."

He reached down for the syringes he kept strapped to his ankle and flinched when she grabbed his arm in a death grip and gasped, "Tony, don't!"

He couldn't help it. He laughed when he realized she thought he was going for his backup weapon. It turned into coughing, though, which made his head feel like it was going to explode. He pulled the needle out slowly and showed it to Ziva.

"Oh," she said, watching him tear an alcohol wipe open with his teeth and uncap the syringe—all with his eyes closed. "You've had these for a long time," she said.

"Since I was a kid," he answered around the paper in his mouth.

She watched him pull up his shirt and inject himself, wincing when he didn't as the needle slipped into his skin. She plucked the needle from his shaking fingers, and he felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment at showing this much weakness in front of her. He didn't have too much time to dwell on it, though, because the next wave of pain hit him hard. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood so he wouldn't moan in sheer agony.

"What can I do?" she whispered, obviously remembering his list of symptoms.

"Shhhhh," he groaned, but stopped himself. "Sorry. Call Gibbs? Can't leave you … here … alone," he panted, wishing desperately that he could curl up in the backseat—or on the freezing, filthy ground. He realized he would give anything not to be upright at the moment.

"Okay," she whispered, and he heard the door open, the soft click like a kick to the head.

"Where…?"

"Outside, so I don't hurt you by being loud," she said, still sounding wholly unnerved by his condition.

" 'S freezing, Ziva."

"Do not be silly. I can handle it."

He felt shame burn the tips of his ears in stubborn defiance of the cold coming through the open door. He allowed himself a quick moan as soon as she shut it, but then forced his eyes open to make sure she hadn't heard it.

And saw her taking off down the alley after their fleeing, murderous dirtbag.

_Shit._

He shot out of the car, only to have to stop and lean against the icy-cold hood to steady himself. He allowed himself two deep breaths before he ran after her, pulling his cell as he staggered. He had to hold the phone an inch from his face and squint to hit the right speed dial, and by the time he managed that, he realized he had slumped against the dirty brick wall of the alley.

He forced himself to move, even if he had to keep a hand on the wall. His stomach was jumping like it was full of grasshoppers, and the dizziness threatened to take him down with every step, but he kept moving. French was a big guy and had shown he didn't mind taking lives so Tony forced his eyes half-open even though the pain was close to unbearable.

"Yeah, Gibbs," came a voice in his ear and he choked back a scream.

"Tony?" Gibbs' voice was a thousand times softer. "You okay?"

"Migraine. Ziva chasing French. Following her," he gasped, not caring that he sounded like English was his fifth language.

"Do _not_ follow her," Gibbs barked, and Tony about passed out. He must have made some sort of pained noise because Gibbs lowered his voice and whispered, "Get back in the car and wait for us, DiNozzo. You're too vulnerable like this to be out in the cold chasing a murderer."

Tony didn't answer him. He was too busy dropping to his knees and puking into the icy alley. He felt his vision go black as he forced himself to his feet to start moving down the alley. He leaned heavily against the wall until it had passed and realized he'd left his phone on the ground. _Too late to pick it up. Don't pass out. Don't pass out. Don't pass out. _

He knew he was taking a chance going after Ziva, but the crime scene photos of French's dead wife were all he saw when he closed his eyes—which was often as he felt his way down the alley. Alana French's head had been caved in and they had found no blunt object at the scene. The thought of the big man slamming Ziva's dark curls into the pavement hard enough to do that kind of damage spurred him on even though he wanted to collapse, curl up and beg for the agony to end.

A shriek from an adjacent alley made him open his eyes for good and sprint the rest of the way toward the sound. Tears leaked from his burning eyes, and he wiped them away with a quick swipe just before drawing his weapon and sneaking a peek around the wall.

_Shit._

Ziva was locked in a struggle with the huge man and Tony flinched, both at the vicious blow she delivered and his own pain. He slumped back against the wall for a second to compose himself, to try to quell the shaking in his hands. His Sig quivered as if afloat in a sea of jello and he cursed silently. He swallowed his rising nausea, took a deep breath, choked back a moan and stepped around the wall.

The bullet grazed his left side, just above his hipbone, and he dove for cover, but not before taking in the scene in the alley. French had Ziva held against his body like a human shield, her gun in his meaty hand.

"Go away!" French yelled, his voice insane. "Or I'll put a bullet in her pretty little head."

"No he will not," Ziva shouted, and rage tore through him as he heard her grunt in pain. "He would have done it already."

Tony's agonized brain sped through his options as he pulled another syringe from his ankle and jammed it into his belly, ignoring both the bloody gouge in his side and the alcohol wipes. _Screw an infection. It's better than a bullet to the head. I know which one's more likely to kill me. _He had no idea what overdosing on the medication would do to him, but he didn't care. He needed only to quell the shaking long enough to take a shot—to get Ziva safe.

He pulled in a shaky breath, barely registering the fire in his side where the bullet had taken out a chunk of flesh. _Steady, calm, you can do this. He won't wait much longer. It's a miracle he's waited this long. _

Tony swallowed hard, wiped the tears from his face with what were mercifully less tremulous hands and cast a prayer heavenward on this cold, starry Christmas Eve.

He stepped into the alley.

He locked eyes with Ziva.

He saw her nod slightly.

He saw French's arm extending.

He saw the weapon leveling squarely at his chest.

He pulled the trigger.

Tony and French hit the dirty pavement at about the same time: French with a neat hole in his forehead; Tony gasping and shaking, both in relief and pain.

His eyes tightly shut against the searing agony, Tony flinched when Ziva's cold hands started their frantic run over his body in search of a wound. " 'M okay," he murmured, sounding dazed and contented at the same time.

He flinched when her hands found the graze. "No, you are not," she whispered, pressing her hand over the bloody wound. "This is from the first time he shot at you," she said, sounding amazed and angry and … guilty?

"Mmmm, yeah," Tony said, fighting the blackness and hoping he hadn't killed himself with an overdose. _Oh the irony. Nah, I'll be fine. Always am. _"Not worried about that, though."

"What are you worried about?" she asked, knowing there were a lot of options, including a severe migraine and a gunshot wound. And Gibbs. He was always an option.

"I could have shot you," he said, his voice low and pained for a multitude of reasons.

"No, you would not have shot me," she said calmly, her hand still clamped over his bleeding side. "You would not have taken the shot. You would have found another way."

His eyes came open at that. He squinted up at her. "You trust me that much?"

She made a rude little noise, and he flinched. "You distrust yourself that much?"

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and smiled despite his pain. "Hey, Ziva?"

"Yes, Tony?"

"Merry Christmas."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **Back at it again! Let me know if it ever gets old... This one's set sometime shortly after Hiatus II, aka Gibbs' bailing to sunny Mexico. And to anyone reading "Down to the Depths of Hell", another chapter is coming. Soon. I promise.

* * *

"Hey, Ducky."

The doctor turned at the soft voice, alarm bells clanging like Big Ben because the voice was far too soft for its owner. He watched Tony's face as the agent paused just inside the pressurized doors of autopsy. Ducky saw the wince as the doors whooshed shut behind him, and the doctor knew it wasn't from the sight of the carefully deconstructed petty officer participating in a macabre show-and-tell on the long shiny table.

"What brings you down here, Anthony?" he asked.

Tony's paleness, his shaking hands, and the pain in his green eyes answered before he could even open his mouth to lie.

"I haven't quite finished with him, as you can see," Ducky said, gesturing to the table.

Tony noticed Ducky kept his lilting, accented voice low and decided to not bother lying. "Is it weird that I still want to call Gibbs and tell him he's going to have to wait?" he asked, kicking himself—gently, because his head really hurt. It felt like his brain had serious structural damage and might cave in at any moment. _You were supposed to be deflecting his concern, not inviting discussion on a decidedly more painful topic. _

But Ducky just smiled at him, somewhat sadly. "No more strange than that I keep expecting him to call and tell me to hurry up." He watched Tony's eyes close in pain and wondered if it was just physically that he was hurting. The doctor doubted it. "Did you give yourself an injection?" he asked softly.

Tony shook his head, winced and leaned against the table not occupied by the postmodern painting done in the not-so-tasteful medium of Navy guts.

"Hands were too shaky," he said, admitting to that lesser sin because he didn't want to tell Ducky that he just really hadn't wanted to face the agony alone.

He breathed a half-sigh of relief as Ducky turned out the bright overhead lights, leaving the big room lit by only the soft glow of the X-ray lightboxes. Ducky helped him onto an empty table, clucking softly when Tony immediately laid back, stretching his long frame across the table, his breath catching harshly in his throat at the change in altitude.

"Why did you let it get this bad?" Ducky asked, gently swatting Tony's hand as the agent moved to reach for his ankle pouch of syringes.

Tony sighed, opening his eyes to try to stave off the dizziness, but then he shut them tightly as the minimal light drove railroad spikes of pain through his eyeballs. _Oh please no. I take it back. I'll keep them closed—even if I end up puking all over the good doctor. It still won't be the most disgusting thing he'll see today. Just please, stop. Please. _"The team was onto something in the case of my roommate over there," he said quietly, but not quietly enough to hide the raggedness of his voice.

"I didn't want to interrupt them," he continued, barely registering the sting of the needle in his belly because of the agony-storm raging in his head.

"You really must take better care of yourself, Anthony," Ducky said, his voice so low Tony barely heard him. But Tony heard loud and clear the unspoken corollary to that, though he wasn't sure if Ducky had even thought it: _Because no one else will now. _

"Mmmm," Tony groaned, unable to speak as the pain dug fiendish claws into his tortured brain. He curled on his side, his breathing turning to choked gasps, and he felt Ducky's soft, warm hand settle on the back of his and squeeze gently.

"I know it hurts. Just breathe," the doctor said so softly that Tony imagined he had somehow just telegraphed the thoughts into his aching head.

He felt the sudden loss of Ducky's warmth as the doctor went to flip on the biohazard warning lights, knowing Tony wouldn't want anyone walking in on him in his vulnerable state. _Please don't leave me,_ Tony thought before he could stop himself. _God, you're pathetic. What's next? Calling Gibbs and begging him to come back? To take back the shocking, stinging "You'll do" that had hurt more than a menacing gang of a thousand knife-wielding migraines? _

Ducky returned to Tony's side, settling on the table next to the agent's curled body. He was slightly unsettled by Tony's fierce shaking and labored breathing. Ducky wasn't used to his patients suffering on these tables. The doctor found Tony's hand and sandwiched his trembling fingers between warm, steady palms. He was surprised when Tony folded long fingers over his and squeezed back—hard.

His weak voice sprang a leak and poured out in a gush of pure pain. "Goddamn, it hurts. Ducky, _please_."

Ducky flinched at the plea, the anguish in the words. "I know, Anthony," he said, wondering what Jethro did to get him through this hell—and wishing the man was here to do it. Ducky winced at the iron grip Tony had on him as he lay there, clinging to the doctor like a lifeline. _Jethro, you should be here. Or at least close enough that I could call you and ask what to do to ease his suffering. I've never had to sit with him through the worst of it, but you have. You know how to touch him, what to whisper to help him calm down, to give him the strength to fight it. I don't. But you're not here. Because you'd rather be sunning yourself in Mexico after having abandoned us all with no more than a sentence each. _

Tony tried to breathe through the agony crushing his skull, but his throat was so tight he couldn't do much more than gasp and choke as he tried not to give in to the tears. Having Gibbs see him crying and weak was one thing, but he was the team leader now and he just couldn't be vulnerable in front of the doctor.

Ducky watched him struggle to simply draw air and his physician's brain couldn't understand it—but the very human side of him who knew this aching young man so well could. _Damn you, Jethro. You didn't just leave coworkers—you left friends, _family, _who need you. Would you even care if you saw him hurting this badly? Would you realize that your abandonment pains him as much as the constricted blood vessels in his head? The Jethro I once knew wouldn't have left him to suffer—in any way. But I'm not sure I ever knew you. _"It's all right, Anthony," he murmured. "Just let it go. Let it out. I'm not here to judge you."

But Tony didn't give in.

His boss—his _former _boss—wasn't the only one with a stubborn streak wider than the mighty Mississippi. He dug in his heels, fighting the unrelenting pain with everything he had. He was shaking so hard with the effort not to scream that he was worried he might need dental work after this, if his head didn't split wide open and kill him first.

He cursed his stupidity in waiting to take the medication that might have staved off the worst of this agony. But McGee had been so proud of his find in Parker's records, and Ziva had looked like she might go find their dirtbag and maim him before they could find the guy's accomplice. So Tony had stayed, giving McGee a pat on the back—proverbial and otherwise—and distracting Ziva from her murderous intents with some unabashed flirting.

He wondered between crushing waves of misery if they would start looking for him soon. Both had looked at him oddly when he announced—his voice pillowy-soft—that he was going to check on Ducky's progress. He wished they still didn't know. They were trained investigators, for hell's sake, and he knew they were beginning to be able to read his subtle signs almost as well as Gibbs.

In his weakened state, the simple thought of his boss was enough to make him shake harder, a feat he didn't think possible. The violent shudders wracking his body must have unsettled Ducky, too, because Tony suddenly felt the doctor's soft fingers at his throat, checking what had to be a pulse thrumming like a poorly tuned V8.

The gentle touch reminded Tony that he wasn't alone. Ducky had been silent and still, their only point of contact their hands. Tony realized with a rush of hot embarrassment that he had the man's hand in a death grip as fierce as the battle being waged behind his burning eyes. Tony found the mute connection reassuring, but he was used to Gibbs touching him, petting him in a way that would have shamed him had he been lucid enough to care, during the peaks in the intensity of his pain.

"Have you ever had seizures during these episodes?" Ducky asked softly, his voice a variegated quilt of concern and nervousness and gentle remonstration.

"No. Not gonna start now," he ground out through teeth clenched against the ferocious pounding in his skull.

He gagged on the words, pressing quaking hands to his belly as the nausea hit him hard. _No please, no. I can't take this anymore. Please. _"Ducky," he gasped. "Gonna throw up."

Ducky slid quickly off the table and retrieved a basin, sliding it in front of Tony just before he began violently keeping his promise. Doctor supported patient while he gagged, each retch making his head light up with tiny explosions of agony, like fireworks launched straight out of hell.

"Done?" Ducky asked when Tony slumped back against his firm embrace, his head resting on the doctor's shoulder.

Tony nodded—just before his body betrayed him again. He shook with the jerky spasms as he emptied his stomach, dry heaving once that task was accomplished.

Ducky felt the retching subside and slid the basin to the floor, wrapping his arms around Tony and letting him rest weakly against his chest.

" 'M sorry, Ducky," Tony murmured, feeling wetness on his cheeks and wondering if he had been crying or if it was just his eyes watering while throwing up—and if there was a difference.

"Nonsense, my dear boy," Ducky whispered, still unnerved by Tony's shaking, especially now that he could feel it against his body. "Just try to relax. I've got you."

Tony wondered if his flaming cheeks would get hot enough with embarrassment to dry the wetness there. He stopped wondering anything as his body remembered he was more or less upright and began protesting with a volume to rival Abby's loudest concert venue. It felt like a hundred manic punks were moshing on his very brain.

Ducky seemed to sense his distress—and its cause—because he helped Tony lie down again, the younger man immediately curling as tightly as the narrow table and his long limbs allowed. Ducky sat beside him, stroking his shoulder and checking his watch. He was dismayed to realize that he had given the medication a half-hour ago and Tony seemed not to be feeling any relief.

"I'm going to give you another injection. Is that all right?" Ducky asked even though he knew the answer. He mostly just wanted Tony to know he would be touching him to retrieve the syringe—not that he thought Tony would hurt him, but the agent was still in severe pain and might lash out in his disorientation.

" 'S okay?"

"Yes, it will be fine," Ducky said, smiling softly. "You're in the care of a physician, remember."

"Sorry, Ducky," Tony whispered, sounding miserable.

"No worries, Anthony," the doctor said, laying a restraining hand on Tony's hip as he started to roll onto his back. "Stay put. I'll make do with this angle."

Ducky had just pulled the needle from Tony's abdomen when the phone rang, its piercing shriek eliciting a similar sound from Tony. Ducky moved with the speed of a much younger man and snatched up the phone. "Autopsy," he answered, as quietly as he could.

Tony pressed an arm over his ear as Ducky whispered a conversation. He tuned the voice out and begged for the medication to ease the searing pain. It had been a while since he'd needed a second dose to stop the agony, and it always scared him when he needed two. It made him wonder if one of these times, all the medication in the world wouldn't end the migraine's wrath and he would have to live like this for the rest of his life. But two shots had always dulled the pain—even the time when he had thought he'd overdosed himself to save Ziva's life. He almost smiled, thinking, _if the OD didn't kill me, I sure thought Gibbs might. Bullet graze or no, I thought he might shoot me for disobeying his order to stay in the car and wait. _

The memories made him feel another wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the migraine so he turned his thoughts to Ducky's quiet conversation. The doctor hung up soon after and made his way back to where Tony lay, finally feeling the headache's tight hold on him easing.

"That was Timothy," Ducky said, figuring Tony already knew that from what he had heard. "They were looking for you to go with them to pick up the drug dealer they think responsible for our petty officer's death. Ah, what was the name he said they came up with?"

"Spinelli," Tony supplied, his eyes still closed and a faint smile touching lips still thinned by pain.

Ducky smiled. "You knew all along," he said knowingly, admiration coloring his tone. "You just wanted them to figure it out for themselves."

"Mmmm," Tony agreed, shuddering with a residual tremor.

"Are you cold? Would you like to go lie down in my office? It will be decidedly more comfortable than here. Though my guests never seem to mind…"

Tony was silent a moment, trying to force words from his aching, still-tight throat. "I need to go with them."

"Anthony," Ducky said sharply, making Tony wince.

"I know," Tony said before Ducky could admonish him. "I had to try. Not really. I know I'm in no shape to have their backs." _And there's no one else to have them, either. Just me. How the hell did _that _happen?_

"You could let them go alone," Ducky suggested slowly, knowing Tony had barely let the junior agents out of his sight since Gibbs had left. It was as if he couldn't stand to lose anyone else and felt an overwhelming need to protect them, no matter what. Ducky swore he could sometimes _see_ the weight on Tony's shoulders of the responsibility Jethro had dropped so suddenly on him. "Gibbs sent you and a partner to collect suspects when you were his senior agent."

Tony sighed, his anguished indecision making Ducky wish he had kept his mouth shut. But Tony just asked softly, "Is it wrong that _that_ still throws me off, too? McGee being _my_ senior field agent?"

"Not at all," Ducky said, sliding a hand under Tony's elbow and helping him sit up. "Are you all right?" he asked once Tony was upright, his head pressed firmly into tremulous hands.

"Uhn," Tony grunted softly, trying to make his aching head stop reeling. It really didn't make any sense that it should still be spinning like a top even with him holding it steady. "Yeah."

Ducky waited patiently for Tony to open his eyes, and when he did, the doctor was shocked by the suffering in those green depths. "Lie back down," he said quickly.

"I'm okay," Tony protested, his still-weak voice contradicting his words. "Just need a minute," he admitted, closing his eyes again—mostly in embarrassment.

Ducky waited, standing and supporting Tony when the agent rose on unsteady legs. He gave Tony a minute to regain his balance and helped him into his office, staying glued to his side until his patient was lying down again, this time on his worn couch. Ducky found a blanket he used on the long nights and covered Tony's body, watching him tremble with the effort it had taken to move the short distance.

Despite the lingering pain, Tony pulled his cell from his pocket and called McGee, wincing when he almost hit the speed dial still programmed for Gibbs. He flinched outright at McGee's loudish greeting.

"It's me," Tony said. "Take Ziva and bring Spinelli in."

He heard McGee's hesitation on the line. "All right," he said slowly, but he didn't hang up. "You okay, Boss?"

Tony flinched at the term, just like they all did whenever any of them slipped up. He remembered the devastation on Abby's face the first time McGee had called him that in her lab. It had taken two dozen black roses and enough flatulent hugs from Bert to gag a maggot to calm her—and a lot of behind-the-scenes reassurances and gentle cajoling from Tony.

"I'll be fine. Just bring him in," he said, wincing again when he realized he had barked the order despite his pain. He softened his tone. "And watch your backs out there." _Too soft. Dammit, why is this so hard? _"And make sure Ziva doesn't kill anyone—with her driving _or_ her Sig."

"Got it, Tony," McGee said, sounding oddly relieved.

Tony flipped the cell shut, groaning softly and burying his face in his elbow. He didn't have to be able to see Ducky to know the doctor was regarding him with concern. "I think that second shot worked," he mumbled into his sleeve, suddenly wanting to be alone.

"That's extremely good to hear, my lad," Ducky said, but he sounded distracted.

And Tony knew by what. "He's a good field agent," Tony said softly, knowing he should wait until he was feeling better to continue their earlier conversation.

"Indeed," Ducky agreed. Tony couldn't tell if the man was being unusually brief to keep from hurting him with too much talk or in an attempt to get Tony _to _talk.

"He's got the brains—with plenty to spare—and the heart," Tony said quietly. "And he's honed the instincts over the past three years."

Ducky waited for him to continue and finished for him when he didn't. "But he lacks experience. He's still a bit green in the field because he does not come from a law enforcement background."

"And that's the one thing I can't pull him aside and teach him," Tony agreed, his mouth twisting into a grimace at a particularly nasty aftershock of pain.

"Anthony," Ducky said, and Tony thought he was going to tell him to stop talking. But the doctor just said, "Gibbs couldn't do that either."

"No," Tony said, startling both of them with his bitterness. "But he could have hung around long enough to watch him gain it."

Ducky didn't speak. And Tony couldn't make himself force his suddenly stinging eyes open to look at him.

"I'm sorry, Ducky," he said after a moment. "I know he's your friend. I shouldn't be talking about him like this to you." _It's why I haven't been down here to ask for advice I would have asked Gibbs for, or reassurance that I'm ready for the responsibility he dumped on me without warning, or begging for you to console me when I feel abandoned and overwhelmed. _

"He is your friend, too, Anthony," Ducky said, taking Tony completely by surprise. "And it is all right for you to be angry with him. I know he hurt you by leaving the way he did. He had no right to spring that on you so suddenly—and in front of the whole team when he knew your issues with abandonment."

Tony was surprised—and embarrassed—by Ducky's directness. So he said, "It's okay. He had pretty much just lost his family all over again. I can't even imagine what that must have been like to go through once. But twice… That's just beyond brutal. I don't blame him."

If he was surprised before, Tony was downright shocked by Ducky's response. His eyes flew open, all pain forgotten. "You should," Ducky said, simply and with a bitterness all his own. "You have stuck by him through thick and thin. You've been nothing but loyal. And you're a damned fine agent who also happens to be his friend. He should have celebrated your promotion with you. Hell, taken you out for a nice dinner or at least a drink. Anything other than a harsh 'You'll do' and a pat on the shoulder, Anthony. You deserved better than that, and I know he won't ever apologize for that, but I will. I'm sorry.

"And I'm sorry you have been left to pick up the pieces. They have been treating you harshly in retaliation for taking Jethro's position, and I wish they would see that you have been allowing them all to grieve without taking any time to do so yourself. You're a good man, Anthony. A strong man, and I'm very proud to be a part of your team."

Tony blinked, thoroughly stunned by Ducky's speech. "I… Ducky, I…"

"I'm sorry," Ducky repeated, misreading the moisture in Tony's brilliant green eyes. "Your head. What was I thinking? Are you all right?"

Tony nodded, gulping a breath. "I'm fine," he said, feeling suddenly better—physically and otherwise. He had been so lost in his own grief that he hadn't realized that Ducky had issues with Gibbs, too. It made him feel better to know he wasn't alone in his feelings of anger and abandonment. "Thank you for saying that," he said quietly, unsure how to express his gratitude.

Ducky just smiled, stood and patted Tony's shoulder. "It needed to be said," he remarked simply.

Tony looked up at him, debating. "You're mad at him, too."

Ducky leaned back, sitting against the edge of his desk. "Of course I'm angry with him. We're a family. He's one of my oldest, dearest friends, and instead of letting us pull together around him, he ran off to lick his wounds without a thought that our losing _him_ might be just as difficult."

"His are some pretty deep wounds, Ducky," Tony said, wondering why he was automatically defending his boss when he mostly agreed with the doctor's sentiments. Gibbs wasn't the one here trying to hold the team together through sheer force of will: constantly reassuring McGee that he was ready to be a senior agent; mopping up the puddles of black tears when Abby lost it; and keeping Ziva from killing anyone as she battled her confused frustration.

Of all of it, though, Tony knew keeping Abby from completely falling apart was the hardest. Nothing hurt him more than seeing her cry and being unable to relieve her suffering, being unable to answer her questions because they too closely mirrored his own.

"The answer to pain is never causing more pain," Ducky said. He smiled suddenly as Tony thought about that. "Though I probably shouldn't say that to someone who has been through the ordeal of reconstructive knee surgery. But I believe you understand my point."

Tony smiled. "I know what you mean." He grimaced slightly and resisted the urge to rub the scar on his left leg. "On both counts. But I just can't make myself blame him after everything he's been through."

"That's because you're a good person, Anthony."

They were silent a moment, and Tony fought the childish desire for Ducky to tell him everything would be okay. But he wasn't a child. He was the team's leader, and he would be strong for them because that's what they needed from him. Even with his limited experience, he figured it was like being a parent: You put aside your own wants and needs to make sure your family had what they needed.

And Tony was damned sure going to make sure they were all well taken care of.

Ducky pushed off the desk and moved to the door, shutting off the light and smiling in the darkness. "Get some sleep. You're going to need all the rest you can get in order to ride herd over this team of yours."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Thanks to those who suggested I deal with Gibbs coming back from Mexico and forgetting about Tony's condition, here it is. Hope I did it justice.

* * *

"What the hell's the matter with you?" Gibbs barked at a fidgeting Tony.

_Hmmm... Let's see. We're stuck here on this pointless stakeout. I'm bored to tears. You called me McGee again, which is unnerving as all hell—and it hurts, for reasons I don't want to think about. You demoted me without so much as two words—no explanation, no "good job holding the team together," no "I'm sorry for the way I left." _

_And my hands started to shake ten minutes ago._

"Bored."

Gibbs glared at him. "Then be bored and _still._ You're bouncing like a two-year-old."

"Sorry," he said quietly, Gibbs' harsh tone making him cringe and feel a flash of something he hadn't felt in a long time.

"Don't apologize," Gibbs snapped.

Tony just looked down at his shaking hands, feeling the pressure building behind his eyes. He saw Gibbs watching him, and he dutifully lifted the binoculars and realized he could barely see their target's window through the fuzziness in his vision. The pattern on the curtains made him suddenly queasy, and he swallowed hard. He wished they were somewhere with a bathroom instead of in the attic of an old storefront.

Tony eyed the audio equipment, thinking at least he could close his eyes and still listen, and he summoned his courage and asked, "Will you trade me, please?"

Gibbs looked him over long and hard enough to remind Tony that he needed a physical and finally just rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

They traded equipment, and Tony gasped out loud when Gibbs' hand locked around his right wrist.

"Hell's the matter with you, DiNozzo?" Gibbs barked, releasing Tony's trembling hand and glaring at the pale-faced agent. "You're shaking like a damned leaf."

Tony squinted as he watched Gibbs study him with a mixture of wariness and open hostility, and he realized with a start that his migraines had slipped through the cracks in Gibbs' broken memory.

_Oh, hell, not again. Not now. _

"Too much caffeine," Tony said easily, not sure why he was lying. _Just tell him. Now. _But Gibbs had been irritated with him all day, and Tony didn't know how the man would react to being reminded of his memory problems.

Gibbs just glared, wondering if he was lying—and if he had ever been able to tell with Tony.

"Speaking of which," Tony said, standing carefully on less-than-steady legs. "I need to hit the head."

Gibbs waved a dismissive hand that had Tony thinking again of his father. He shoved those thoughts straight out of his aching head. "Can I bring you anything back?"

Tony watched Gibbs give him another slow once-over, feeling something that bordered on violation at the intensity of the scrutiny. He found himself hoping Gibbs had heard the subtle note of pain in his voice and would remember. Tony knew he should just spill and get it over with. But he couldn't—and he wasn't entirely sure why. He knew it was partly because he thought he could still head it off with a shot, but he chose to leave the rest of his motives unexamined.

"Coffee," Gibbs finally said, his eyes still on Tony's shaking hands. "If you can manage not to end up wearing it before you get back."

Tony flinched—more at the harsh tone than the volume that made his head throb in time with his quickened pulse. "Sure."

As soon as the door closed behind him, Tony reached down and pulled a syringe from the pouch at his ankle. He glanced both ways down the deserted hall, knowing it was unlikely that anyone would be up here this late at night. He brushed a wipe across his skin and winced as he used shaky hands to force the needle into his belly. He felt it sink deep into his abdominal muscle, and he leaned his head back against the wall, breathing a sigh of pure relief even though the shot had done nothing yet to ease the pain.

He pushed himself off the wall, glad to find he wasn't dizzy and knowing he had caught it in time. Tucking the syringe into his sleeve, he headed down the hall and out of the building, tossing the evidence in the trash as he went.

By the time he had returned to the small attic after grabbing coffee for Gibbs, the pain had returned, too. He cursed his traitorous body, recognizing this as one of the bad ones that would need two doses to cool the searing agony.

Tony's hand still shook as he handed Gibbs the steaming cup, and he winced at the disgusted tone. "Seriously, DiNozzo? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"You really don't remember, do you?" he heard himself say before he could stop the words.

Gibbs' eyes narrowed. "Remember what?" he asked, his tone low and dangerous—the very tone he used on suspects when he actually didn't know what they were about to say.

Tony cringed at that tone and tried to think of a way to admit his weakness that wouldn't anger or annoy his boss any further.

Gibbs' blue eyes flashed like flickering gas flames. "Fine. Don't answer me. Just throw it in my face that there are things I still don't remember." He shook his head in disgust again. "Just when I thought I remembered that _I_ was the bastard."

Tony blinked in shock. "Gibbs, I—"

"Shut up, DiNozzo," Gibbs barked. "I don't care."

Tony just stood there, having no idea what to say or do. He was dismayed at how much those words had hurt. A quick glance at his watch told him he would have to wait over a half-hour before injecting himself again, and he fought the urge to press his hands to his aching head and close eyes that felt awash in acid even in the dimly lit room. He sank into his chair, closed his eyes anyway and took a few deep breaths, not caring if Gibbs noticed—or cared.

The pain was just too much.

"You need to call McGee," Tony ground through clenched teeth, his words adrift in a sea of agony.

Gibbs was silent a moment, but Tony couldn't read it with his eyes closed and the pressure threatening to split his skull open.

"He'll be here in less than an hour," Gibbs finally said, but his tone was suddenly wary, with less bark.

"Yeah, well, if our dirtbag shows up," Tony said, pausing to draw a breath in a hiss and not caring about anything besides getting the words out, "don't expect me to back you up."

Tony could feel Gibbs' eyes on him—could practically _feel_ him gaping in shock—but he didn't open his eyes.

But Gibbs had heard the pain in his agent's voice. A memory nagged at the back of his mind, but he couldn't place it.

And that pushed his frustration through the roof.

"I'm not asking again, DiNozzo," he growled, wondering if Tony had always flinched at this tone—and why he wouldn't look at him. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Tony snapped back, prying his eyes open and squinting at his boss. "Either call McGee or I will."

"Dirtbag's not showing up," Gibbs said, watching Tony's left hand flex and wondering why he knew that was a bad sign. "And you're not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on with you."

"Thought you didn't care?" Tony asked sharply, but Gibbs heard the underlying hurt coloring his tone. But he couldn't understand it.

"Fine," Gibbs said, turning back to the window and missing Tony clamping a hand over his mouth to keep from throwing up. "Sit there and suffer."

Tony almost laughed—if he weren't busy swallowing his nausea and trying to ignore the avalanche of pain, both from the fierce migraine and Gibbs' harsh words. But he just followed the order, sitting silently with a hand on his churning belly and his lip firmly between his teeth to keep from expressing his anguish. He tasted blood after the first ten minutes, and he could feel Gibbs watching him, but he didn't move, didn't speak.

McGee showed up five minutes early, and Tony bolted without a word.

"What's his problem?" McGee asked, hoping Ziva would arrive soon so he wouldn't be stuck with an obviously angry boss.

"Hell if I know," Gibbs said darkly. "But he obviously expects me to read his damned mind."

"That doesn't sound like Tony," McGee thought out loud. "He's never quiet. Well, except when he's getting a migraine. And he did look a little pale."

Gibbs blinked, rushed with memories of Tony lying curled on various floors, gasping and choking on his intense pain. He suddenly remembered that first night in Tony's apartment, and he could practically feel the fierce tremors wracking his agent's body as he cried silently in his arms.

"Goddammit," Gibbs said as Ziva walked through the open door looking confused.

"What is with Tony?" she asked. "Bad takeout? He is throwing up in the alley, and he ignored me when I asked if he was all right."

Gibbs left without a word, and McGee started to explain.

* * *

"Tony?"

DiNozzo knew from the tone—if not the volume—that he had remembered. Or McGee had told him. Too bad he didn't know how to feel about that.

Not that it mattered.

He was too busy trying not to puke on his shoes—again.

Gibbs felt a little sick himself as he put a gentle hand on Tony's back. He jerked away as if burned when DiNozzo hissed, "Don't touch me."

"Hell, Tony," Gibbs said, watching him wipe his mouth on his sleeve and slump weakly back against the wall. He didn't try to stop him when Tony's knees buckled and he slid down, ending up on the filthy pavement. Gibbs found himself ridiculously feeling glad Tony wasn't wearing one of his insanely expensive suits. "I'm so sorry."

Tony choked on his bitter laugh while grinding his palms into his eye sockets, thinking it might just be more comfortable to rip his own eyes out. "Guess you also forgot you don't apologize."

Gibbs winced, but he wasn't sure if it was at the words—or the pain in them. "I remember now," he said quietly, crouching beside Tony and taking the syringe from his agent's shaking fingers. He ignored DiNozzo's glare and slid the needle into his stomach. Tony hissed again, and Gibbs said, "And I don't mind apologizing when I hurt you."

Tony lowered his quaking hands and blinked at him for a second before his eyes snapped closed again. "Thanks," he mumbled, still hurt and angry but not wanting to be. The agony was muddling his thoughts, though, so he just tried to breathe through the crushing pain. He wondered idly if his brain was leaking out of his ears yet.

He felt Gibbs slide down beside him onto the dirty ground. Gibbs' calloused hand settled on the back his trembling one, and Tony sighed, giving in to the anguish and letting his head rest on Gibbs' shoulder. He breathed slowly, deliberately, as if trying to replace the pain with oxygen.

"That your first shot?" Gibbs asked after Tony's breathing had evened out. He wasn't sure he could handle it if Tony said yes—the implications of that would be too much. Gibbs didn't like the thought of Tony suffering silently up there in that attic, and with his blessing, no less.

"Second," he answered, his voice low, his suffering on full display.

Gibbs closed his eyes and whispered, "Hell, Tony."

Tony just lifted the shoulder pressed against Gibbs' because he didn't think he could talk even if he wanted to. He mostly just wanted to go home and sleep for a few days. But his earlier anger still simmered on the back burner, and he'd be damned if he asked Gibbs for a ride home.

But Gibbs, being Gibbs, said, "Let me know when you're ready. I'll take you home."

Tony made a strangled little sound low in his throat, and he felt Gibbs' hand tighten on his. " 'M sorry, Gibbs," he choked, hot tears slipping from under closed lids. "Such a jackass."

Gibbs' heart clenched at the tears, the multiple varieties of pain he could practically feel himself. "Yeah, Tony. I was."

Tony's laugh turned into a moan, and he felt Gibbs' arm wrap around his shaking shoulders. His cheeks started to burn. "Gibbs, I—"

"Shhh. We'll talk later. Just breathe."

_Good advice,_ Tony thought, _considering I can't really do anything else but sit here and try not to scream_. He knew his stress was making it worse, and he tried to calm down, to stop worrying about his fight with Gibbs. It shouldn't have been so hard, given Gibbs' words. Tony knew Gibbs was easily angered, but he also knew the man could let things go just as easily.

"Any better?" Gibbs asked once Tony's shaking had subsided.

Tony nodded without thinking, sending fresh pain clattering through his head. "Well, I was," he muttered, suddenly feeling cold.

Gibbs felt him shaking again and deduced its origin without having to ask. "Come on," he whispered. "I know it's gonna hurt, but let's get you somewhere warm."

"I don' wanna," Tony moaned, his head still against his boss's arm.

Gibbs was suddenly struck with an image of Kelly begging off bedtime and he felt a shudder of his own. He wondered how the pain of losing them could feel so fresh even after all these years. Tamping down his own anguish, he turned to help Tony up only to find an intense pair of brilliant green eyes watching him. Gibbs felt like finding a mirror to see if his thoughts were actually printed on his face.

"It's all so messed up," Tony whispered as Gibbs stood.

The lead agent looked down, wondering if Tony had meant to say that out loud. He heard the suffering in his voice and tried to think of the last time Tony had sounded so openly miserable. Gibbs figured it had to be during one of these migraines—because DiNozzo didn't display emotions like this, ever. He remembered _that_, at least.

But Tony was looking up at him with a mixture of sadness and empathy and pain—and Gibbs had yet to pull him to his feet so he couldn't quite figure out that last part. But Gibbs just reached out steady hands to take shaking ones, figuring they could get the physical taken care of before they tackled the rest.

Tony came slowly upright, wondering how much Gibbs remembered about his condition. He decided he didn't much care as he buried his face in the man's neck and tried to regain some sort of equilibrium. The term "Any port in a storm" popped into his head and he almost laughed. But mostly he just followed Gibbs' standing orders to breathe.

He wasn't sure he could handle much more than that.

Still thinking of Tony in his apartment that first night, Gibbs just stood there, his hand coming to rest on the back of Tony's neck as if of its own volition. "You okay to move?" he found himself asking, knowing he was sinking into some sort of familiar pattern but feeling uneasy anyway. He mostly didn't want to say or do the wrong thing. He knew Tony was still hurting and he just didn't want to make it worse.

He got a little groan in answer that he automatically—and correctly—interpreted as "No, but I will anyway." Gibbs turned him, one arm sliding around his waist, one hand moving to support his elbow, and he led the shaking agent to the car parked nearby in the alley. Gibbs propped him against the car and unlocked the door as quickly as he could, feeling Tony's ragged breathing and knowing instinctively that it was less the pain and more DiNozzo running short on his ability to withstand being helped.

Gibbs hid his wince as he none-too-gently shoved Tony into the passenger seat. He let Tony pull the door shut and saw him flinch at the sound as he moved around the car. Settling behind the wheel without a glance to his right, Gibbs pulled out of the alley and headed toward Tony's apartment, wondering if he should say something. Considering Tony's reaction to his earlier apology, Gibbs knew it was going to take more than an "I'm sorry" to even begin to make this right.

Gibbs watched Tony lean his head against the window, knowing he was seeking out its coolness as much as using it to ground himself as the car swayed and bobbed through the late-night traffic. It made him wonder how he knew that, but then he remembered that Tony was always more open during these episodes. It was like the intense pain ripped the masks from his very face, working like a truth serum because he simply didn't have the requisite energy to lie—or hide.

That realization made the investigator in Gibbs want to pull the car over and interrogate his agent, to find out why he had been so angry, why he would choose to suffer over just admitting his condition.

But the rest of Gibbs knew he couldn't do that to Tony because for all his forgetting, Gibbs knew that Tony needed his hiding places like pianos need tuning. Gibbs couldn't remember everything that had led up to this moment, but he knew he had hurt his friend—he had heard the pain in his voice that had nothing to do with the migraine.

And he wanted to fix it.

No sooner had Gibbs opened his mouth, not even sure what he was planning to say, when Tony said softly, "Thanks for the ride."

Gibbs realized he had been sitting parked just outside Tony's building for a while now, just watching DiNozzo breathing slowly, his left hand burrowed into his eye socket, long fingers trailing back along his temple. He wondered what Tony had made of his silence—if he could think about anything besides the pain.

"You want me to come up with you?" Gibbs asked, wondering if Tony could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

"No," Tony said, sighing. "But you will anyway."

Gibbs couldn't help it. He grinned. And thought he saw a hint of a smile curving Tony's mouth.

Gibbs parked the car and helped Tony into his apartment, wrapping an arm loosely around his waist, letting Tony decide how much to lean on him. It was just one more thing that he did without thinking but somehow knew it was the right thing to do.

Tony used the wall more than Gibbs for support, still feeling conflicted over his anger. He was dismayed to find the pain was drifting away like fog out to the horizon, but he still didn't know how to feel.

They made their slow way down the hall, and Gibbs felt cold panic wash over him as they approached Tony's bedroom. He suddenly couldn't remember how this worked—how much help he gave his agent with the more intimate details.

"Hmmm?" Tony murmured, sensing Gibbs' reluctance.

Gibbs smiled, wondering how Tony had known. "I, uh," Gibbs started slowly, uncharacteristically shy. "How does this work exactly? How much do I…?"

"Are you asking if you undress me?" Tony asked, a spark of amusement in his tone. He let Gibbs flounder for a second before saying, "No, you don't. You usually hold me upright while I kick off my shoes and let me pass out fully clothed. I usually work out the details later when I can actually care about being comfortable."

Gibbs considered that, holding Tony upright while he kicked off his shoes. He winced when Tony groaned softly at the change in altitude as he sank onto his bed, bracing his arms on his thighs and riding out the wave of dizziness. He watched the agent slide sideways and curl up on his side.

"That doesn't seem very… comfortable," Gibbs said. "Why don't I just help you?"

Tony cracked an eye, wondering if his boss was serious—and if he'd lost his mind along with his memory. He saw Gibbs staring down at him with gentle concern and suddenly Tony's anger was gone. He said softly, "You do it _for_ my comfort."

Gibbs just looked confused.

Tony closed his eyes again. "You know how much I hate being helpless. When I'm… like this," he said, unable to summon his distaste for that term lest Gibbs misread it. "You let me do things for myself to give me back some sort of control."

Gibbs was slightly startled by the honesty in Tony's voice, and he knew that it was costing the agent something to be that open with him about his perceived weakness. And he appreciated it.

"I can't believe I forgot," Gibbs said, shaking his head.

"I can't believe I was mad at you for forgetting," Tony admitted softly, glad he could keep his guilty eyes closed.

Gibbs frowned, but went on anyway. His voice was soft, but neither mistook the reason. "You weren't just mad at me for forgetting," he said, watching Tony's eyes open and meet his. "I'm sorry, Tony."

Tony nodded, closing his eyes again. "Thanks, Gibbs," he said, "for everything."

Gibbs nodded, moving toward the door. He stopped, hesitating and half-expecting the "Hmmm?" he got from his tired agent. "Uh, what do I do now? I mean, I know I stay, but…"

Tony grinned in the darkness. "Make coffee. Poke around, listen to my neighbors fight, read my mail." He laughed. "Hell should I know? I'm usually passed out by now."

Gibbs smiled and left the room, pretending he didn't hear Tony's contented sigh and soft words. But he heard them—and knew he was meant to hear them.

"Welcome home, Boss."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **Holy honkin' hiatus, Batman! But anyway, I'm back. This is set sometime after season two.

* * *

Abby sat cross-legged on Tony's bed, watching him shift restlessly in his sleep. She cursed Gibbs for letting Tony run around out in the cold rain all night when he had been showing all the signs all week of a serious infection setting in, but she knew it wasn't fair to blame him. The team had been searching for a missing child, and Abby knew there was no way in hell Tony would have sat warm and dry in the office while the others were out searching.

Not as long as he was still breathing, anyway.

Even if he knew it meant he would return in the early hours of the morning drenched, pale and shaking. And he did. And Abby had noticed immediately, all her earlier joy at their having found the child safe and unharmed vanishing as she made Tony sit at his desk, her hand on his chilled arm as she took in his soaked-to-the-skin state.

"I'm fine," he had said, but the whole team had heard his teeth chattering as he said it.

Not that they weren't all wet and cold and exhausted.

But his were the only plague-scarred lungs in the room, and so Abby had waved them all off one by one but had stayed glued to Tony's damp side until finally convincing him to let her take him home. And she hadn't missed Gibbs' subtle signing of "Thank you" as she had walked him out, pretending not to notice how heavily he was leaning on her.

He had been silent on the ride home—except for the increasing rasp to his breathing—and Abby had almost driven him straight to the hospital even though she knew he would protest. But she couldn't help it. Every time she heard him breathe like that, that harsh wheezing that sounded so painful, she would find herself flooded by memories—none of them good. His scarred lungs were forever linked to Kate's subsequent death for Abby, and it just served to make her suffer right along with him when he got sick like this.

And even though she knew she would be plagued with nightmares of snipers on rooftops, she always stayed with him through the coughing and misery—because she also knew that he too was reminded of their fallen friend.

So there she sat, clutching his hand and watching him toss and turn. She reached out a hand that rivaled his own shaking and let it rest on his forehead.

"Damn, DiNozzo," she whispered, feeling the feverish heat of his skin practically searing her chilled hand.

He mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep, and she bit her lip, wishing there was something she could do for him. Unable to sit still, she rose silently and went to his small bathroom, locating a wash cloth and wetting it with icy cold water from the sink. She returned, glancing at her cell phone sitting on his nightstand, and debated calling Ducky while silently cursing Tony and his stubbornness—and lack of a thermometer.

She knew he had owned one at some point—several points, considering she had bought the damned things. But every time she showed up to his apartment intent on nursing him through the hacking and shaking and bone-crushing fatigue that these infections brought, she could never find the thermometers. She knew he probably threw them away the second she was out the door, hating the admission of "weakness" she knew he thought needing to own one was.

So she never said anything.

And just kept buying them.

But tonight she didn't want to leave him to run to the store. She settled beside him again, laying the wet cloth across his fevered brow and taking his hand again, sighing as his long fingers curled tightly around hers.

"Oh, Tony," she said, eyeing the phone again and wondering if calling Gibbs would make her feel better. She didn't want to bother him since he had been out in the rain until all hours, too, but she really needed reassurance right then. And Tony wasn't about to give her any. His only response to his own softly spoken name was a small, wheezy sigh of his own.

Abby glanced at the clock and winced at the glowing display that read 5:08 in the morning. She smiled a wry little smile that Gibbs would usually have been up by now in all likelihood. But she doubted he was now, especially since it was now technically Saturday. She fought a yawn and slid down beside her friend's body, sitting bolt upright as her bare arm came into contact with his overheated skin.

"Tony?" she said, re-crossing her legs and looking longingly at the phone again. She tried again with more volume when she got nothing in return. "Tony!" she said, shaking his shoulder and biting her lip again when he simply groaned softly in response.

"DiNozzo!" she yelled, trying to channel Gibbs at his most annoyed.

But Tony only swatted lightly at the hand she had resting on his burning cheek.

"Please?" she whispered, knowing she might be overreacting to the heat in his skin but not having the thermometer to prove or disprove that theory. "Tony? Can you hear me?"

She shoved again at his arm, abandoning her earlier gentleness. But he only curled onto his side, shucking the sheet from his sweat-soaked body.

Abby looked at the phone again, and shook her head firmly, deciding she could deal with this on her own. She had at least been able to catch a nap in her lab while the team was on their way back from the scene where the little boy was found. She popped to her feet, glanced down at her skull-and-crossbones pajamas and shrugged.

She didn't care what the people at the all-night pharmacy thought of her attire.

* * *

Abby returned twenty minutes later to find Tony in much the same position—and condition. His skin was still hot to the touch, and the digital readout told her that his temperature was high but not dangerously so. She rewetted the cloth and returned to his side, noting with relief that he wasn't coughing yet.

She knew it would probably be coming, especially considering his raspy breathing, but for now there was nothing for her to do except wake him in the morning and make him take the antibiotics Ducky had sent home with him.

Curling up beside him again, she finally let her tired eyes drift closed.

* * *

Abby was dragged back into consciousness an hour later by Tony's ragged breathing and restless stirring beside her. She blinked sleepily and sat up, rubbing her eyes and looking down at his pale face.

She frowned at the frown shadowing his handsome features and wondered what hellish fever dreams were playing like bad movies on the backs of his eyelids.

"Tony?" she said, not expecting a response.

And she didn't get one.

She watched him sleep fitfully for a while, wiping the sweat from his fevered body and wishing he would wake up and make a joke about the odd intimacy, even though they both were happy strictly being friends. She watched him jerk in his sleep as if burned by contact with some searing nightmare.

"Oh, Anthony," she whispered, touching his face gently and wincing when he swatted at her hand. "It's me, Tony. It's Abby. You're okay, baby."

* * *

_"Baby?"_

_The tall, dark-haired woman walked farther into the room, her green eyes flicking around in the beginnings of panic. She knew her son was in here somewhere; there was nowhere else for him to go._

_And she could hear his soft whimpering. _

_Pausing in the middle of the room, she cocked her head to the side and fiddled nervously with her diamond tennis bracelet. She heard him again, and she turned sharply, the emerald silk gown swishing lightly around her ankles. She crossed the room and opened the closet door, her heart breaking at the sight of her young son curled up in a ball on the floor. _

"_Anthony?" she whispered fearfully. She gathered the flowing layers of the dress into her lap as she squatted down beside his shaking body. "Baby, what's wrong?"_

_His small body jerked at the sound of her soft voice, but he didn't speak. She watched with increasing fear as his little hands moved up to his head, his fists coming to press against his eye sockets so tightly that she reached out and took his wrists in her hands, flinching when he gasped in shock at the contact. _

"_It's me, baby," she soothed, sliding farther into the closet and sitting, not caring one bit about the expensive dress wrinkling under her. She slid her hands up his arms and pulled him into her lap, cradling his trembling body against the intricate beading on the bodice of her gown. _

_She looked him over as best she could, noting that his little suit was barely wrinkled. It was as if he had come up here to lie on the closet floor after his father had banished him from the party downstairs for some infraction or another, and he hadn't moved since. She checked her platinum watch and noted that little unpleasantness had been almost an hour ago. _

_Biting her lip as she remembered her husband roughly dragging her son from the room, she unbuttoned the cuff and rolled up his sleeve, tears stinging her eyes as she saw the faint purplish bruising on his little wrist. She shifted him in her arms and the tears spilled down her face at his pained little moan. _

"_I'm so sorry, baby," she choked out. "Someday I'll get up the courage to get us out of here. I promise, Anthony. I'll never let him hurt you again."_

_She slid the shirt up his back and found no other evidence of violence on his baby-soft skin, and she sighed in relief. _

_Until she heard him whimper again and start to cry in earnest. _

"_Baby?" she said, thoroughly unnerved by his shaking. "What's wrong? Where does it hurt?"_

_He didn't answer her, and she looked down at his face, noting his eyes were shut tightly. _

_Taking a breath and hating herself for having to ask—again—she whispered, "Where did daddy hurt you?"_

_He mumbled something, but it was so soft and muffled by silk that she didn't hear it. _

_He spoke again. "My head."_

_Her heart tripped and stuttered at his soft, anguished words, and she ran her hands through his hair, her slim musician's fingers gently searching out lumps or bumps even as she seethed, silently cursing her husband and his temper. _

"_He didn't," Tony whispered, and she felt her heart break all over again at the realization that her six-year-old baby boy knew she was checking him for a head injury—and that he automatically assumed she thought his father had hurt him. _

" '_S jus' a headache," he said quietly, his slurring making her wonder why he was protecting the bastard. _

Like you've ever stood up to him? _her guilty conscience nagged at her. She closed her eyes in shame, knowing her son was far more brave at this young age than she ever would be._

"_I'm so sorry," she said, feeling him flinch in her arms. "Open your eyes and look at me."_

_She felt him shaking his head against her body. "Can't."_

_She sighed. "Please, Anthony? I need to see you." She swallowed her guilt as quickly as she downed the drinks to dull the pain. "I need to make sure he didn't really hurt you."_

_His eyes popped open at that, and she tried not to look away from the green gaze, so like her own, so filled with many of the same pains. _

"_He really didn't hurt me, mama," he said, his eyes closing again as more tears tracked down his pale cheeks. _

_Her fingers ghosted over his injured wrist in silent communication. _

"_He didn't hurt my head," Tony corrected, his voice shaking. "It hurt before he yelled at me downstairs."_

_She blinked slowly, a realization forming through her fog of alcohol. "Have you had headaches like this before?"_

_He nodded. _

"_When, baby? How many times?"_

"_Twice," he whispered, driving a stake through her heart. "You and daddy were away and Rosa just gave me medicine and told me to go to bed."_

_She cursed the nanny who hadn't bothered to tell her about her son's condition—and herself for not being there when she should have been—and said, "It didn't help, did it?"_

_He shook his head and whimpered again at the movement, and she knew he was cursed with the migraines that ran in her family. Having seen her brother suffer through them at a similar age, she could imagine just how badly her baby was hurting. _

"_It's a migraine," she whispered, wondering how best to explain it to a child so young. "A really bad headache. Your uncle gets them, too. You'll probably have them your whole life."_

_His eyes popped open wide before snapping shut again as a memory swam through his haze of pain. "You mean I'll cry when I'm all grown up, too?"_

_She would have laughed if not for the pain and fear in his hushed voice. "Yeah, baby," she said. "You probably will." _

_They were silent for a moment as she gathered up her courage to go tell her husband that they needed to take their son to the hospital, and he fought the pain that was increasing to the point that he wanted to scream. _

_But he knew he couldn't. Father wouldn't like him creating a scene with a houseful of guests. And it would only scare his fragile mother, he knew._

"_Mama?" he whispered. _

"_Yes, Anthony?"_

"_It hurts."_

_His words were like a slap in the face as she realized he was suffering while she stalled facing her husband. A mirthless smile touched her lips as she realized too that it wasn't just tonight that that was true. _

"_I know, baby. I'm sorry," she said, moving to get up only to be stopped by the sound of her husband's booming voice. _

"_Gabriella? Anthony? Where the hell are you two?"_

_She flinched at the slurred words—but also at the jealousy she heard in his tone. She knew her husband resented their son for taking up far too much of her time, at least in his eyes. She could barely count the times in the last year that she had been sunning herself with him on some beach while thinking about her little boy, left home in the big, empty house with only the staff for company. Staff that didn't even notice that his agonizing headaches were not simple nuisances but a serious medical condition. She purposely put how much he must have suffered through those out of her head; the guilt was just too much. _

"_In here," she called as softly as she could. She felt her child flinch anyway. _

_Anthony Sr. stomped into the room, his lips twisted in disgust at the sight of them. "Gabriella," he shouted even though he was barely three feet away. "What the hell is wrong with you? Get up off that floor."_

"_Lower your voice," she whispered harshly, feeling her son's increased shaking in her arms and wondering if it was only from the pain. _

"_Gabriella," he began, her name sounding like a warning. _

"_And stop calling me that," she hissed. "It's too bloody formal. Like this damned dress. I feel trussed up like a French whore."_

_He eyed her, knowing the drink was making her brave, and sniffed the air before smiling with a twisted sneer. "You smell like one, too, _Gabby."

_She was about to lay into him, not caring if she made a scene—again—but Tony moaned in her arms, pressing his face against her body and writhing in agony. _

"_What the hell is wrong with him?" the big man snapped, his eyes giving away his concern at the obvious pain his son was in. He didn't remember hitting the boy… this time. _

"_He has a migraine," she said._

"_Great. Not only does he inherit your crazy family's incessant chattering, but he also gets their weaknesses, too. Perfect."_

_She blinked in shock at the man's callousness, but simply shook her head and said resignedly, "We need to take him to the hospital."_

"_Give him some aspirin and put him to bed," he said dismissively. "He'll be fine."_

_Gabby just stared, wondering if perhaps Rosa _had _told someone about her son's condition. But now was not the time to get into that. _

"_He's suffering," she said, hoping with the fervor of a child that he would understand, that he would care. _

_The man looked down at his son, curled up and shaking in his wife's arms, and sighed. "Fine. But change your clothes before you go. That dress was expensive and I don't want it getting ruined if he throws up on you like the last one."_

_She fumed, but just nodded, wishing without any real hope that he would help her up, or at least take their child in his arms and accompany them to the hospital. Her hopes lifted when he turned back from the door._

_But all he said was, "And get Rosa to drive you. You're stinking drunk again, Gabriella."_

_She closed her eyes but couldn't stop the tears that slipped down her face, landing on her son's and mingling with his. She looked down, surprised to find green eyes staring back up at her. Even her brother never opened his eyes during the throes of this agony, and she marveled at her boy's determination even before he opened his mouth. _

"_Mama?"_

"_Yeah, baby?"_

"_I think you smell nice, Gabby."_

_She laughed, her heart twisting with pain and regret and fear—and overwhelming love for her irrepressible son. _

"_Thank you, baby," she said, standing and shifting him in her arms while trying to ignore her soft swaying. She blamed the six-inch heels. _

_And hoped someday he would be able to forgive her. _

* * *

Abby couldn't take it anymore. It was after 8 a.m. and she knew Gibbs would be up, no matter what time he had finally gone to bed. She picked up the phone.

"Yeah, Gibbs."

"Bossman," Abby said, practically sighing his name in her relief at hearing his voice, the steadiness and strength in it.

She realized that was _all_ she had said and wasn't surprised when he simply asked, "How bad is he, Abbs?"

"Pretty bad, Gibbs. His temperature is 104.1, and while that's not brain-damage danger zone and fevers are actually a good thing because they're a big part of the body's immune system and they are actually vital to fighting infections—"

"Abby," Gibbs broke in. "Less about fevers. More about DiNozzo."

"Oh, right," she said, looking down at the man in question. "He's scaring me, Gibbs. He's mumbling and tossing and turning, and he's completely incoherent. I mean, not making any sense at all. I think he called me Gabby. I'm really scared."

"No, he didn't," Gibbs said, but then he went on. "How's his breathing?"

"Raspy, but he's not coughing yet," she said. "Wait. How do you know what he said? You're good, Gibbs, but you're not even here. Unless you're hiding in the closet. Which wouldn't be very funny. I've been going crazy here alone. Not that I'm actually alone, but you know what I mean."

There was a hesitation on the line, and Abby looked at the phone to make sure the call was still connected. "Gibbs?"

"His mother," Gibbs finally said. "Her name was Gabriella. Gabby."

"Oh," Abby said, wondering how Gibbs knew that and she didn't.

"Do you want me to come over there?" Gibbs asked.

Abby debated. There was nothing for him to do, really, because there was nothing for _her _to do. And she didn't think Tony would want to wake up to both of them staring at him.

"No, I'll be okay," she said. "I just got a little freaked out."

She bit her lip, wishing he would just be Gibbs and insist on coming over and taking care of everything. Being as fiercely independent as she was, she hated that she needed his reassurance so badly.

"Abby?"

"Yeah?"

"You know you can call me if he gets any worse."

She smiled at his apparent mind-reading. "Thanks, Bossman."

* * *

_Tony lay across his mother's lap in the backseat of the car, the vehicle's pitching and rolling making his queasy stomach do the same. He moaned softly at the pain stabbing through his head and pressed his face into his mother's shirt. He was deliriously glad that she had changed out of the dress with the tiny beads that scratched his face and into a cottony-soft plain shirt. The material was black, and he buried his face in it, trying to block out the moonlight that burned his eyeballs like acid. He was also glad that his father had sent him up to his room without dinner because he knew that was the only thing keeping him from throwing up right now. _

_He tried not to think about that angry exchange—or the throbbing in his wrist that was nothing compared with the agony raging in his head. He felt like the aliens from that movie he wasn't supposed to have watched had crawled into his ear and were having a party in his brain. A real party, with music and cake and balloons and games, not like the boring adult parties his parents were constantly either hosting or attending. _

_He cracked open an eye and looked up at his mother, her beautiful face as pale as the moonlight that was causing him so much pain. He closed his eyes again and nestled against her, trying not to scream. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and started crying again, his broken little sobs making her arms wrap tighter around his quaking body. _

"_I'm so sorry, baby," she whispered, glaring at Rosa and silently urging the woman to drive faster. "I know it hurts. We're almost there, and the doctors will make it go away."_

_By the time the car mercifully stopped, Tony was sobbing so hard he could barely breathe. The pain was intense and all-consuming, and he barely noticed anything else as his mother carried him into the crowded emergency room. Until she shifted him in her arms, propping him up against her shoulder, and he heard another child's anguished cries outdoing his own. He pulled his face from her soft, rose-scented neck and saw another little boy, sitting in his father's arms in a chair, the boy's face streaked with tears he knew were mirrored on his own face. _

_Tony heard his mother give the nurse their name and they were ushered deeper into the ER without another word. Even at his young age, even through the pain crushing his little skull, Tony couldn't help wondering why the name "DiNozzo" opened doors immediately and the other child's didn't, even though he was hurting just as much. _

_Tony soon forgot about the other boy, though. Not out of selfishness but out of pain. The doctor saw them immediately, taking the boy's vitals himself and then apologizing softly when Tony began shrieking at the light the man shone into his eyes. Gabby held her son close, murmuring softly and wishing there was something she could do to ease his suffering. _

_She looked pleadingly at the doctor. "Please, help him. Please?"_

_The doctor nodded and injected the boy with a needle Tony was glad he didn't see coming. He didn't scream or yell; he just buried his face in his mother's arms and cried harder, suddenly thinking about the other boy again and wishing his own father was here with him. He should have known from experience that his father was more likely to hurt him than take his pain away, but at that moment, he was just a scared six-year-old who wanted his daddy. _

_The shot, too, had hurt more than it helped, and Tony said, " 'S not working, mama. Why does it still hurt?"_

"_Just give it time, baby," she said, holding him tightly and wishing there was more she could do. "It'll stop hurting soon."_

_Tony weighed that for a moment, wondering if he should believe her. He loved his mother more than anything—anyone—else in the world, but sometimes she said things and didn't keep her promises. Like that time she promised she would be there for his baseball game, and he had come home grinning like a maniac from having scored, twice, only to find her passed out in bed, a spilled wineglass near her elbow. _

_Maybe this time would be different. _

"_Okay," he said, his voice shaking with the effort of forcing out the word. "I believe you."_

"_Good, baby. Just rest. It'll all be over soon."_

_Those words that should have been comforting made him stiffen in her arms as a bolt of panic shot through him. "You're not going to leave me, are you?"_

_If he had been looking at her, if he had been old enough to understand, he would have seen the anguish those words caused her. _

"_No, Anthony," she said, trying not to cry. "I'll always be here for you, baby."_

_And as the pain began to lift just the tiniest bit, he felt a wave of guilt as he wondered if he had any reason to believe that, either. _

* * *

The coughing started up around noon, and Abby looped an arm around Tony's sweat-soaked body and helped him sit up. The fit ended and Abby plucked a tissue from the nightstand and wiped his mouth, surreptitiously and automatically checking for blood.

There was none. Yet. And she hoped this would be one of the time there wouldn't be any.

She eased him back against the pillows and found his bleary green gaze focused intently on her face.

"Are you okay?" she asked, unnerved by the look in his eyes and knowing his dreams about his mother had not been pleasant.

She watched him seem to shake himself and he nodded. His hand was on his chest, and she knew he must be feeling the uncomfortable heaviness of the infection settling deep into his scarred lungs.

"You don't have to stay," he whispered, unable to put any more force behind the words that left him pulling in a deep breath.

That breath made him start coughing again, and Abby winced at the wet, hacking harshness of it.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "But can I stay anyway?"

That got a slight smile out of him, and it did wonders for Abby's nerves.

"Sure, Abbs," he breathed.

She smiled back at him, only to have it fade when he started barking again. She slid behind him, planting the tissue box in front of him and thumping a small fist hard in the center of his back to loosen the gunk clogging his lungs. She tried not to sigh as she heard him bringing up all of that gunk, and she knew she hadn't lost her touch from helping him through his original illness. He coughed again, and she hit him once more, knowing she was helping him more than hurting him but still feeling bad all the same. She let her hand rest on his spine as he breathed, each painful gasp making her wish she had given in and called Gibbs.

But she knew Tony preferred her playing nursemaid to Gibbs' every time, and she also knew it had something to do with his skewed perception of his condition as a personal weakness. She wished he would just get over that.

She helped him lay back again.

"This really sucks," he panted.

She smiled wryly. "Yep."

"Thanks for making it suck less, Abbs," he said.

She squeezed his hand. "Anything for you, Tony."

She stayed with him the entire holiday weekend while he alternately hacked and slept fitfully, having passed out from the sheer exhaustion of trying to clear his lungs. Abby had never known until Tony and his plague-scarred lungs just how much exertion it took to lie around and cough.

But it didn't matter. She knew it was all worth it—even the sheer panic of seeing tinges of red on those tissues—as she awoke next to him from a mid-Monday nap, his fever having broken and the coughing that had lasted through the long nights nearly gone. She stayed while he showered the sweat away and changed into clean clothes.

He emerged from his bathroom looking much more human, the bright sheen of illness gone from his green eyes, the pallor only barely noticeable under his tanned skin.

She stood, stretched and yawned, glancing at the door. "Are you sure you're going to be okay?"

He tried not to feel guilty about her slightly disheveled appearance. "I'll be fine, Abbs. I really appreciate you staying and dealing with all the, uh, gunk with me."

"Of course, Tony," she said, wondering why he looked so sad all of sudden and then remembering him mumbling his mother's name amid his fevered dreams. "I'm just glad you're feeling better."

"I am," he said, still looking uneasy. "Thanks to you. You've always been there for me, Abby. Thank you."

She smiled at his uncharacteristic openness, his shy gratitude, and she planted a kiss on his cheek on her way to the door, glad for the coolness of his skin under her lips.

"I'll always be here for you, Tony."


	14. Chapter 14

It was a bad day at NCIS.

A biochemical threat had been called in and several sensors in the mailroom were going berserk so this one threat among many was being taken seriously.

The entire building was on lockdown. Everyone was stuck where they had been when the alarms had started shrieking.

And so Ziva found herself trapped in the elevator with the sobbing fiancée of a murder victim. That the Mossad officer was 99 percent certain the woman was also his killer only made it easier for Ziva to not feel guilty about wanting to strangle her. The woman was blathering on about flowers and dresses and RSVPs when she slipped up in her grieving almost-widow act and mentioned the massive life-insurance policy "the dumb bastard forgot to sign before I killed … oh shit."

Ziva cuffed her.

And then gagged her with her own scarf and smiled for the first time in hours.

And so Ducky and Palmer were having tea in autopsy, affectionately trying to out-bore each other to death with random stories. Ducky was, as could be expected, in the lead by several decades' worth of zany adventures. As soon as Jimmy gave in and conceded the victory, Ducky planned on breaking into a victory song—barbershop style, as a kind of consolation prize for his amiable young assistant.

And so McGee was in the men's room, counting tiles and cursing himself for leaving his iPhone at his desk. His only company was the rather foul stench coming from the farthest stall.

Things were considerably worse down in Abby's lab.

Abby was silent.

Gibbs was scared.

And Tony was shrieking.

Yeah, it was a really bad day at NCIS.

But maybe shrieking was the wrong word for it. Perhaps keening was more apt to describe the cries coming from the senior agent as he lay curled in the corner, the pain and pressure in his head making him completely apathetic to the fact that he sounded like a dying animal caught in a bear trap. That the viselike jaws of pain were clamped around his head and not a leg snapped like a twig didn't make the comparison any less apt. It still hurt like hell and there was nothing he could do about it.

Except shriek. Or keen. Or whatever it was.

The alarms were definitely shrieking, though—still. Long after the initial warning, the alarms were still wailing away, which had to be some sort of glitch. Surely the system engineers didn't think the continual warning was necessary? Especially considering there was no getting in or out of the building. There was no moving around it, either, since the elevators and most doors were sealed to stop airborne contaminants from spreading.

Just as Abby was about to start crying and Gibbs was about to pull his gun, the shrieking stopped.

At least from the alarms.

And Abby suddenly wanted them back—if only to drown out the very real, very human shrieking coming from her friend.

And Abby suddenly needed to go to where Tony lay balled up under the windows where he had started his slow slide earlier that afternoon.

"_Looks like we're gonna be here a while," Abby had said, looking unbothered since she was at least stuck there with two of her favorite people. _

_Gibbs looked rather annoyed, and Abby suddenly panicked, doing rapid-fire calculations about her boss's caffeination levels and wondering if there was anything in the lab that could be alchemied into coffee. Tony looked sick, and Abby wondered if he had better (or worse) intel on Gibbs's recent coffee intake and current supply levels. _

"_Maybe it's just a drill?" Tony shouted hopefully over the squealing alarms. _

"_Maybe you could call someone and find out," Gibbs growled, making both Abby and Tony flinch. _

_Which was odd because Tony rarely reacted to Gibbs' foul moods with anything other than excessive cheer. _

_And both Abby and Gibbs noticed the anomaly. _

"_You okay, Tony?" Gibbs asked, his concern discernable even over the squawking overhead, all traces of his earlier annoyance evaporated like rain on hot pavement after a summer storm. _

_Tony started to wince and turned it into an overbright smile. "You mean other than the deafening alarms, the lockdown and the possible imminent death from a biological weapon? _Again._"_

_He grinned. _

_Gibbs got his glare back. _

"_Just peachy, Boss."_

_They congregated closer at Gibbs' crooked finger and not-so-optional invitation. When they were practically in a pile, Gibbs waved a hand where he knew Tony's blind spot usually was during the migraines. _

"_You forgot the headache, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, managing to be heard even though he had spoken softly. _

_Tony ignored him, which was impressive considering they were so close their shoulders were touching. "I should call someone," he said, trying not to squint at his cell—or pull his gun and shoot himself before the pain got any worse. He flicked the phone open and then immediately shut again. "Crap. It's a real threat. They have the scramblers on." _

_Gibbs was looking at him like he was insane. _

_Tony knew that was a signal to keep talking. He looked at Abby for help. "Explain, please?" he asked, hating the pain threading the words almost as much as the plea itself. _

"_All cell transmissions to, from and within the building are blocked during an actual threat to prevent a device from being triggered by a call. They only flip the switch, so to speak, during real threats. Even the regular phones are disabled so a device can't be detonated by a specific frequency, like a ringer. Don't you ever check your e-mai… Never mind."_

_Gibbs looked disproportionately furious, and Abby knew why. _

"_So we are locked in this room with these damned alarms and we can't call anyone?" Gibbs asked, knowing the answer. _

_Abby nodded anyway. _

_Tony sighed and tried not to look as mortified as he felt. "And I'm about to make it worse for you."_

_Abby's eyes went wide. _

_Gibbs looked upset, for reasons Tony didn't want to think about any more than he wanted to think about Gibbs actually looking upset. _

_Tony nodded the confirmation no one needed. They both could see the pain in his eyes, the way his head was slightly tilted. But he said it anyway. _Might as well get used to being mortified_, he thought. "The alarms aren't going to be the only screaming you'll have to put up with. My needles are in my bag upstairs."_

_Abby sniffed. _

_Gibbs swore softly._

_Tony flinched. _

"_I'm sorry, Boss."_

Abby laid a gentle hand on Tony's shoulder and whispered words that she doubted he could even hear.

He was keening too loudly.

The sound was visceral. Primal. That of an animal in excruciating pain.

It was making Abby sick. But she was also infinitely grateful that Gibbs was there. She had been relatively okay with Tony's shaking. She had handled the gasps that gave way to moans that turned to fists pounding the floor amid cursing Abby would have been amused by had it not been a reminder of her friend's suffering—and her own infuriating helplessness. She had seen tears streaking his pale face before and had handled that by digging down to her deepest wells of strength and simply getting them both through it. But he had never been this pale before.

He was as white as her lab coat.

So was she.

What Abby had _not_ been able to handle, however, was when he had opened green eyes awash in agony and begged her to help him.

And Gibbs, who had been observing from afar, his leg's twitching having nothing to do with caffeine, saw Abby recoil from Tony's anguished plea. Gibbs put a hand on Abby's shoulder, which was shaking in time with DiNozzo's, and he whispered, "I got him, Abbs. I got him. You did good."

He watched her slither away, knowing she wanted to go lock herself in the soundproof ballistics lab to escape his suffering but also knowing she would never leave him like this—even if his suffering was too much for her to be too close to. Just thinking about the room, Gibbs cursed the engineers who had decided alarms were needed even in that soundproof space. He couldn't help thinking that if they had been able to get Tony someplace quiet—away from the alarms shrieking in an odd foreshadowing of DiNozzo's own cries—that he wouldn't be in such bad shape now. Maybe not, but still Gibbs wondered—and still cursed the engineers.

He flicked a glance at the windows, shaking his head slightly.

Abby saw it and signed to him, *Bullet-resistant glass. No way we're breaking out of here.* A look of excitement crossed her face and she jumped to her feet.

Gibbs watched her run toward her office and almost called out to her. But he didn't want to disturb Tony—or give him false hope that just maybe his nightmare would be over soon. So Gibbs grabbed the nearest thing at hand—which happened to be Bert the Hippo—and heaved it at Abby's fleeing back. The animal made contact with a soft fart, and Abby turned, looking bewildered.

*The hell, Gibbs?* she signed.

*What the hell are you doing?* he signed back, the look on his face conveying the tone his hands couldn't.

She grinned, if only a bit shakily. *I'm going to put a note on the window that we need help in case someone sees it.*

Gibbs nodded, not having the heart to voice what she probably already knew: The area around the building was likely blocked off. But it would give the energetic scientist something to do, and Gibbs figured it was possible that an emergency responder might see it.

Abby found paper and markers and went to work making her SOS sign. She allowed herself only one small skull drawing in the corner—if only to make herself feel a little better. She was sure Tony wouldn't mind.

Gibbs watched her hang the sign and hoped she wouldn't fall off the stepladder and break her neck. He wasn't sure how much more he could take. He was getting too damned old for this.

He turned his attention from the safety hazard that was platform boots on a rickety stepladder to his writhing agent. "Tony? You with me?" he breathed, his lips mere inches from DiNozzo's ear. "What can I do?"

Tony stopped moaning long enough to reach out blindly and find Gibbs' hand, locking it in a death grip as soon as he made contact.

"Help me," he whispered, his eyes flicking open for only a second in a flash of green.

But it was long enough for Gibbs to see the pain and suffering—and anger—in them. Gibbs was glad for the anger. At least Tony was with it enough to be pissed about his situation. Gibbs knew he was also humiliated by his shrieking, but there wasn't anything either of them could do about that. He suppressed a shudder at the thought that he couldn't really do _anything_ and at the unfamiliar feeling of helplessness that came tripping on its heels.

"How, Tony?" he asked, squeezing back and trying not to panic over how hard that hand was shaking in his. "How do we help you?"

"Shoot me," Tony moaned.

Gibbs felt a stab of relief at Tony's attempt at humor—until Tony's shaking increased more than Gibbs had thought possible and he realized his agent might not be joking.

"Can't," Gibbs said. "And don't ask me to choke you. Ducky said it's too dangerous with the constricted vessels in your head. You could have a stroke."

Tony didn't speak.

Gibbs didn't think he could.

"Abby," he said, wincing when Tony flinched at his whispered call to the scientist. "Do you have anything we could knock him out with?"

Abby looked excited again for a moment before running lightning-quick through the possibilities and scowling. "I'm not a rapist, Gibbs. I don't keep chloroform in the lab for emergencies."

That plan shattered, they were all silent.

Until Tony started keening again.

And Gibbs finally admitted that he was well and truly scared—if only to himself, silently. He winced at the tightening of Tony's hand on his and made a mental note to confiscate the stress ball the senior agent often played with at his desk. Gibbs told himself it was so Tony couldn't continue bouncing it off unsuspecting teammates' heads. And then he pried Tony's fingers slightly open and moved the death grip up to his forearm out of concern for the small bones in his hand.

" 'M sorry," Tony gasped out, choking on his tears and managing to sound even more miserable.

"Don't worry about it, DiNozzo," Gibbs said gently. Tony flinched at the soft tone, and Gibbs wondered if his sharp agent had picked up on the fear in his fearless leader's voice. Gibbs joked, "Just might need that hand to shoot you if it actually comes to that."

Tony made a slight wheezy sighing noise that Gibbs figured was in appreciation of his attempt at humor.

All traces of humor disappeared when Tony started shaking again, his moans escalating into sharp gasps of sheer blinding pain and then to full-on shrieking. Gibbs watched helplessly as Tony curled into a position he hadn't thought possible of the tall agent. Tony buried his face in his arms and continued screaming into his sleeves. Gibbs could make out odd bits of profanity, but he shivered as he realized it was mostly just an incoherent wail of agony.

"Do something, Gibbs," Abby said, lifting her own tear-streaked face from where it had been buried in her drawn-up knees. "Please, Gibbs. Please. He sounds like he's dying."

Gibbs bit back his scathing retort. "I can't do anything," he said, the defeat in his tone apparently scaring all three of them because Abby started to cry again and Tony stopped screaming immediately.

Gibbs' free hand stilled on Tony's back, where it had been unconsciously moving slowly, soothingly back and forth, and he looked down into anguished green eyes.

" 'M not dying," Tony breathed, the words barely audible as he forced them out and shut his eyes against the freight train of pain that slammed through his skull. "Tell her 'm not dying."

"She knows," Gibbs whispered, unwilling to speak loud enough for Abby to hear him across the room. He knew he couldn't help Tony, but that didn't mean he couldn't _not_ hurt him.

"Might… start… seizing… though," Tony gasped out, his eyes still tightly closed.

Gibbs was glad Tony wasn't looking at him because he knew his panic at that word had showed on his face. Abby's sharp intake of breath proved that, and he looked over and saw the scientist's hands flutter wildly.

*What the hell do we do if he has a seizure?* she signed.

Gibbs didn't actually know the sign for "seizure" but he could guess easily enough. He shrugged, mouthing his words and letting her read his lips because he didn't want to pry Tony's hand off of him. The contact, though Gibbs figured he'd end up with some spectacular bruises, seemed to calm Tony, and Gibbs didn't mind being Tony's lifeline if he needed one. The opposite had been true enough times that it only seemed fair.

*I have no idea,* he mouthed back.

"If I start… just hold me down," Tony whispered, making both Gibbs and Abby wonder if he had read their minds as easily as Abby had read Gibbs' lips. "Only thing you can do… is keep me… from hurting myself. And don't put… your fingers in my mouth. I won't swallow… my tongue. More likely… to bite you."

Tony rested his forehead on the cool floor tiles, completely exhausted by the words. Even through his misery, he was grateful he hadn't eaten in a while and he didn't have to contend with puking his guts out, too. The pain was enough to deal with. He had honestly forgotten how bad it could get without the medication. It was unimaginable. But Tony didn't have to imagine it. He could feel it. And it felt like all of the worst thunderstorms he had ever experienced—all raging at once in the tight confines of his skull. Lightning bolts of pain flared with every sound, every ray of light that slammed into his closed lids, every gasped breath he took. Thunder rolled across his brain every time he moved, and the nausea was so bad he almost wished he could throw up to ease its greasy grip on his roiling stomach.

Fighting it made it worse so he had been giving in to the torment and screaming for all he was worth, oddly hoping to shriek loud enough to lose his voice as quickly as possible so his unfortunate roommates wouldn't have to put up with him as long. But he knew from the conversation he could sense rather than hear that he was scaring them both.

Tony did _not_ want to be responsible for striking fear into the mighty Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

It should have been an impossibility.

Gibbs considered Tony's advice and hoped like hell he wouldn't have to put it to use. He lifted his hand off Tony's back while the shudder passed through him at the thought of his agent flailing like a fish while he and Abby stood helplessly by. He laid his hand on DiNozzo's back again, frowning tightly as he realized Tony was shaking harder than ever now that he had stopped screaming.

"Dammit, DiNozzo," he whispered, feeling Tony's flinch even though he had barely breathed the words. "And people say _I'm_ the stubborn bastard."

Tony didn't respond. He just lay there, shaking like a fault line under Gibbs' gentle hand.

"Scream, Tony," Gibbs said, feeling inexplicably sad. "Just scream. We can handle it."

The look on Abby's face said otherwise, but Gibbs knew she would just have to suck it up and deal. Tony needed them to be strong for him because he couldn't at the moment. DiNozzo had held both of them together more times than Gibbs cared to admit, and he was determined to return the favor.

Tony didn't scream, though, and Gibbs wondered where the young man had gotten his strength from. Knowing what he did of DiNozzo's childhood, he could pretty much rule out his father as a source of that incredible grit and determination. That Gibbs never even thought to consider himself a source was at least a partial answer to the question.

Gibbs lifted his hands long enough to sign to Abby. *Can you reach anyone on that?* he signed, pointing to the computer.

"Not nice to talk with your hands," Tony murmured, sounding dazed.

Gibbs wondered not for the first time why DiNozzo didn't just give in and let himself pass out. Gibbs figured the pain had to be bad enough to make that a possibility—otherwise, his agent wouldn't be reduced to a screaming ball on the floor. The truth, though, was that Tony had been trying to give up the fight but every time he sank close enough to oblivion to feel the pain's crushing grip ease just the tiniest bit, his body would jerk him awake and he would be back to square one. He didn't know if it was some instinct for self-preservation or some cosmic cruelty, but he hated it all the same.

*They locked down the network as tight as the building,* Abby signed, her frustration showing in the jerky movements of her normally fluid hands.

Gibbs made one succinct sign back that Tony would have recognized had he been looking.

He was too busy trying not to scream. He had heard the impossible shade of fear darkening his boss's voice and was determined to hold it together—for them as much as for himself.

At least as long as he could.

And it turns out it wasn't long before Tony started keening again, unable to stop the cries from escaping.

Abby buried her face in her knees, wanting nothing more than to go curl up in Gibbs' arms and let him chase away all of the demons. But she knew he would have already if he could, and she felt her distress mount tenfold. She tended to need her gods to be almighty.

Gibbs closed his eyes and breathed deeply, wondering how long Tony would be forced to suffer. He knew the medication usually took a bit to kick in, but he had never seen DiNozzo in such prolonged pain. And there was no relief coming because Tony's needles were up in his desk. That made Gibbs angry, and even though he felt bad for directing his anger at his suffering agent, he couldn't help the words that tumbled from his mouth.

"Why the hell don't you have your needles on you?"

Abby's head jerked up as if pulled by a string from a cruel puppeteer above. Her eyes were wide, her mouth hanging slightly open in a soft black O of shock.

Tony didn't respond at first, and Gibbs entertained the futile, desperate hope that he hadn't heard him. But then green eyes opened, staring up at Gibbs with an equal mixture of agony and hurt, the latter not even remotely rooted in the physical.

"Forgot to strap 'em on this morning," he said, unable to keep either variety of pain out of his voice. "Didn't think we were leaving the building today." He coughed a laugh that turned into a gasp. "Never imagined we'd be locked up _in_ the building."

Gibbs read the anguish in his tone—and the subtle undertones of anger. He had no idea if DiNozzo was pissed at himself for leaving the needles or pissed at him for bringing up that moot point at a time like this.

Gibbs was only slightly surprised when Tony continued despite how much he knew talking was hurting him.

"Don't need you to remind me I screwed up," he whispered, burying his face in his arms again. "My skull splitting open is enough of a reminder."

The effort of forcing out the words swept a cape of blackness over him, and Tony tried to give in to the dark. But his body again stayed stubbornly awake, excruciatingly aware. He knew there were fresh tears streaming down his face, but he also knew they were quickly soaking into his sleeves unnoticed by anyone but him.

And that suited him just fine.

He released Gibbs' arm, realizing with a rush of shame that he had dug tiny crescents into the flesh with his fierce grip and had left marks that would probably turn to bruises.

"I'm sorry," he said, suddenly needing to be far away from Gibbs. And his boss wasn't moving so Tony pushed himself up and tried to get to his knees.

The movement was too much too quickly, though, and his last thought before the wave of unconsciousness washed mercifully over him was: _Finally. _

Gibbs and Abby watched Tony try to get up only to collapse back down into a limp heap. Gibbs knew they both were feeling relief that he wasn't suffering anymore—along with worry for the same reason. Gibbs reached out to check his agent's pulse, but just as the fingers contacted his throat, Tony started convulsing on the hard tile floor.

Abby gasped in horror as she watched her best friend flop like a fish out of water in the corner of her usually serene lab. She had no idea how Gibbs shoved aside his own panic and pulled the flailing body away from the walls and knelt over him, firm hands on Tony's arms to pin them to his sides. Tony's head thrashed from side to side, but Gibbs could do nothing about it.

Really, Gibbs couldn't do anything but hold Tony down and ride out the seizure with him.

"Goddammit. This is _not_ happening. Please, stop. Tony, please. I don't know if you can hear me, but please. You have to stop. Please, Tony. Goddammit, DiNozzo, now is _not _the time to start disobeying orders. I'll never headslap you again, okay? Please, Tony. Just stop. Goddammit."

Gibbs didn't even realize he was speaking his thoughts out loud until Abby gave a sob muffled by shaking hands clamped over her mouth. He stopped pleading with his unconscious agent and simply held him down, keeping Tony's convulsing body as still as possible.

The seizure lasted no more than a minute, but Gibbs' muscles were aching by the time Tony finally stopped jerking beneath him.

Gibbs suddenly found the lack of any movement almost as terrifying as the flailing had been, and he put a trembling hand on DiNozzo's chest to make sure he was still breathing. The unsteady rise and fall was both comforting and frightening all at once.

*Recovery position, Gibbs,* Abby signed.

Gibbs nodded, taking a moment to note Abby's extra-pale face and shaking hands. He wasn't sure if the signing was leftover from their earlier conversation or if she was reverting because she was terrified and that was what she always did when scared beyond words.

Gibbs looked down at Tony, laid out flat on his back, and he knew Abby was right about putting him into the recovery position so he could breathe easily and not choke any of his own fluids. He took the arm closest to him and stretched it out straight, pointing it away from the body. Taking Tony's far arm, he tucked it under the agent's face so his cheek was resting on his hand. He slid his hand under Tony's far knee, bending the leg and pulling Tony toward him and onto his side while using his free hand to keep his head still. He made sure Tony's airway was clear and looked around for a blanket to cover the unnervingly still body.

"You keep a blanket down here?" he asked, hoping Abby would snap out of her fog.

*Not a good idea. It's hot as hell since they shut down the AC because of the threat,* she signed back.

"Good thinking, Abbs," he said, watching her frown when she should have been beaming at the compliment.

Gibbs looked down at Tony, feeling helpless again and wondering how long he would be out. He almost hoped it would be long enough for help to arrive, but he also had no idea what had happened inside DiNozzo's head to make him seize in the first place. He knew migraines could cause seizures without anything underlying being a factor, and he figured Tony's struggle to get away from him hadn't helped. But just the thought of burst blood vessels and strokes and other catastrophic brain injuries had Gibbs gently easing one of Tony's eyelids open to check for damage in the only place he could without a CT scanner—or one of Ducky's bone saws.

He was infinitely grateful to find only clear green staring unseeingly back at him. He finished his earlier attempt and put two fingers to Tony's throat, nearly falling over in relief at finding the pulse strong and steady under his touch.

"You sure never do anything by halves, do you, DiNozzo?" he whispered, leaving his hand resting gently on Tony's neck, needing to feel that reassuring beat of his heart.

Gibbs looked up and saw he had gotten a tiny smile out of Abby with that.

*Is it wrong that I'm glad he's unconscious?* she signed, biting on her lip as she stared at her friend's limp body.

"He's not hurting this way," Gibbs said, speaking both to try to get Abby to follow suit and because he really didn't want to move his hand from Tony's pulse.

*But is he okay?*

Gibbs sighed. "I don't know, Abbs," he said truthfully, feeling Tony jerk under his hand and wondering if seizures had aftershocks or if the agent was coming around.

He felt another surge of infuriating frustration that Ducky was a floor below them, completely oblivious to the medical emergency playing out over his unwitting head. Gibbs wondered if that was true though, considering how loud Tony's screaming had been. But Gibbs also knew no one complained about Abby's deafening music so he doubted the doctor had heard a thing.

*What do we do now?* Abby signed, her hands moving quickly and not waiting for Gibbs' response. *He's probably not okay considering he's out cold, and he needs medical attention because he just had a damn seizure in the middle of my lab, and I know strange things happen down here, but this isn't strange, it's just—* They both heard the click of the door being released and Abby continued out loud, "—awful and we have to help him."

Gibbs smiled, his relief showing on his face as he pulled his cell to call for help. Abby was already on the phone to Ducky.

They hung up at the same time, and Gibbs suddenly found himself with an armful of crying Abby. He soothed her as best as he could, realizing how hard it had been for her to keep up her brave face and not do this hours ago.

"He's going to be fine, Abbs," he murmured, looking over her shoulder at the unconscious subject of his words and wondering if he had the right to project the confidence he didn't feel.

* * *

Gibbs paced the halls at Bethesda later that evening, the ferocity of his glares sending even the most hardened and battle-weary nurses scurrying away. Rather impressive, considering many of them had served overseas in actual war zones.

Tony had yet to wake up, and all Gibbs could think about was the way the young man's body had been convulsing under his. He could almost feel the jerky spasms of the seizure again, and he balled his hands into fists and thought about putting one through the face of the next doctor who had the audacity to tell him to stay calm and be patient.

It was a good thing that doctor was Ducky.

The ME found Gibbs prowling the hall outside Tony's room and figured the agent hadn't been able to sit still and wait at DiNozzo's bedside. Ducky knew the restlessness wasn't simply the result of caffeine.

"Jethro, please," Ducky said, brave enough to put a hand on Gibbs' arm. The doctor examined the bruising on Gibbs' forearm and could guess at its origin. "You need to calm down before you stroke out on me."

Gibbs turned furious eyes on his longtime friend. "How can you joke about that? We don't know if he—"

"He didn't, Jethro," Ducky interrupted gently. "That is what I came to tell you. His brain scans are all fine. No signs of strokes or bleeding or any of the many complications of a seizure such as he had."

"Then why is he still unresponsive?" Gibbs asked wearily, his relief at that news obliterating his anger and revealing the deep exhaustion underneath. He had been through hostage situations that left him feeling less drained than the past few hours had. "And that's a stupid term. DiNozzo's so good at hiding that he can be unresponsive wide awake."

Ducky almost smiled at that and carefully weighed his answer before speaking. "He suffered through severe pain for a long while before seizing. His body is likely exhausted from the effort of battling it—and his reaction to it. Abigail told me he was alternately screaming and keeping silent, and the strength it took to keep himself from putting voice to the agony was no doubt extremely draining."

"I told him to scream, Duck," Gibbs said, feeling guilty that he hadn't been able to do more for his friend. "I knew it was killing him not to, but he wouldn't listen to me."

"I'm sure he just didn't want to scare you. Or young Abby," Ducky added quickly, seeing Gibbs' wince. "Anthony likes to play the fool, but he knows perfectly well just how frightening this had to have been. For both of you. And without getting into the atrocities of his childhood, we both know Anthony hates being a burden. Especially to those he truly cares about. That includes you, Jethro."

Ducky wasn't expecting Gibbs to agree. Or to rub hands roughly over his tired face.

"I don't think he likes me right now," Gibbs said softly, not meeting Ducky's eyes. "Or he wouldn't if he was awake."

Understanding dawned in the doctor's eyes. "You don't want to be there when he wakes."

Gibbs would have been impressed by Ducky's perception had it been a random case and not something so deeply personal. "I snapped at him for not having his needles on him. It was the last thing I said to him before the seizure," Gibbs admitted to the floor.

Ducky nodded, wondering how best to handle this. Gibbs didn't often admit to wrongdoing so the doctor knew he must be feeling rather badly about his comment. "First," Ducky said evenly, "you snap at him all the time. He can handle it. And second, he _should_ have his needles on him at all times. He knows there is no substitute for the medication in them, and he knows how bad the pain will get without it. You drill the importance of being prepared and learning to anticipate into your agents from day one. He did screw up."

Gibbs thought about that for a moment. "I don't think telling him that between his screams of pain was exactly a good idea," he said quietly.

"No," Ducky agreed. "Probably not. But it doesn't make you wrong."

Gibbs didn't speak.

"Why did you say it, Jethro?" Ducky asked, knowing the likely answer.

"I…" Gibbs started, sighing. "I was scared, Duck. He was hurting, and I couldn't do anything about it. And with him shrieking like that…" Gibbs broke off with a shudder, hoping he would never have to hear someone suffer through that much pain ever again. It brought out long-buried memories of combat, and he forced his thoughts elsewhere. "And I was _pissed_, too. He knows better. He _should_ have had the needles on him. He needs to take better care of himself."

"Considering his childhood," Ducky said, "you'll have to forgive him for not taking care of himself. I highly doubt anyone ever showed him how to do it."

Ducky was rarely that succinct so Gibbs waited for the rest.

"Or that he was worth taking care of," Ducky added. He sighed. "You need to go in there, Jethro. The lad is, unfortunately, quite used to waking up in the hospital with you at his side. If you are not the first person he sees when he wakes, he's going to think you're still angry with him."

"I'm not, Ducky," Gibbs said, sounding much older than his years. "The opposite, I think."

"Ah," Ducky said sagely. "You're still scared."

No one else but the amiable old doctor could have gotten away with a blunt statement like that. But Gibbs was glad Ducky had voiced what he couldn't. "He's… He means a lot to me," Gibbs said thickly. "When I was there with him during the seizure, practically sitting on him to keep him from hurting himself, I felt… And I realized just how much…"

Ducky nodded, knowing Gibbs had said all he was able on that subject. "You did absolutely the right thing, by the way. You kept him safe, and didn't try any silliness of keeping him from swallowing his tongue or any other such nonsense."

Gibbs smiled ruefully. "He told me not to. Said I'd only get my fingers bitten."

Ducky smiled, thinking about how very DiNozzo it was of the agent to be facing a possible seizure and worrying about Gibbs not getting hurt. "He's going to be fine, Jethro. He should be waking soon."

Gibbs nodded, heading for the room. "And I should be there when he does."

* * *

Tony awoke feeling groggy and confused. He knew he was in a hospital, had vague memories of blinding pain, and found himself fighting the odd feeling that he had done something wrong.

_As if doing something _right_ ever leads to mind-numbing pain and hospitals? _he questioned his own thoughts, confusing himself even more trying to remember what he was thinking about.

"What?" he murmured, wishing someone would turn off the buzzing and realizing slowly that it was coming from his own head. He figured he could deal with the oddity (sanity? okay _in_sanity) of answering his own thoughts out loud at a later time. Preferably when he knew exactly where he was and why he was there.

"Tony?"

He didn't need the voice or to open his eyes to know for certain who was in the room with him. He could smell coffee and sawdust, and the latter made him wonder if he had been unconscious long enough for Gibbs to go home, build a boat, sail the seven seas and come back to sit vigil over him.

"Boss?" he said, wondering why it sounded like a question even though he knew who was with him.

He would have known even without the sensory clues.

"Yeah, DiNozzo, it's me," Gibbs said softly, his hand finding Tony's. "You'd know that for sure if you opened your eyes."

"They're not open?" Tony asked, sounding dazed. He cracked an eyelid and was surprised—and more relieved than he had ever been in his life—to find that the minimal light from the hallway wasn't setting his retinas on fire. "Oh. That's better. I think."

Gibbs smiled in relief even as he watched Tony squint at him, his green eyes hazy as a summer afternoon. Gibbs' smile faded as Tony's frown lingered.

"You okay?"

"Mmmmmm," Tony breathed, fighting the urge to rub the lingering pain from his temples. "What happened?"

Gibbs' hand tightened on Tony's. "You don't remember?"

Tony's frown deepened as he tried to fight his way through the cotton stuffing his head. " 'S kind of fuzzy," he admitted softly, giving in and closing his eyes again. He wondered if people who didn't suffer from migraines even knew how lucky they were to be able to keep their eyes open whenever they wanted. He also wondered if they knew the sheer bliss of relief that closing them could bring.

Gibbs released Tony's hand at the slightly slurred words and obvious confusion in his agent. "I'm going to get your doctor," he said, standing.

"Wait," Tony protested. He opened his eyes again and blinked several times to try to get his boss in focus. "I'm okay. It's normal for people to be confused after a seizure. Don't worry, Gibbs. Everything's fine."

Gibbs sat again, shaking his head. "You know _you're _the one in the hospital bed, right?"

Tony cocked his head. "Yeah. I'm not _that_ out of it. And the draft up my backside is a pretty good clue. Why?"

Gibbs gave him a half-smile. "So I should be the one comforting you, you know."

Tony just smiled back, closing his eyes against the remnants of pain scattered through his head.

Gibbs watched him, something nagging at the back of his mind. He finally got his exhausted brain to latch onto it, and he asked, "How did you know you had a seizure if you don't remember what happened?"

"I'm an investigator, Boss," Tony said cryptically. He opened his eyes to find Gibbs looking at him patiently. _Patiently? What the hell? _he thought, cursing his seizure for making Gibbs so very un-Gibbs, which was as extraordinary as the undead—only much, much scarier. "My head hurts so I must have had a migraine. Nothing else hurts so I must have had a seizure."

Gibbs was looking at him like he was insane.

_Welcome back, Gibbs. _

"Only other time a migraine landed me in the big house—hospital, not jail, and yes I find it disturbing that I have to make that distinction—was when said migraine led to a seizure."

Tony saw the cogs turning in Gibbs' head and he started speaking again to head off questions about that unpleasant experience. "I kind of remember being in Abby's lab with … alarms? Oh right. The bio threat. How'd that work out? I don't remember much other than an embarrassing amount of screaming on my part and then…?"

He looked at Gibbs with flaming cheeks, hoping he would fill in some of the blanks—or not. What he remembered was bad enough.

Gibbs wasn't sure he was ready for that part yet—if he even wanted to bring up what an ass he had been to Tony.

"Threat neutralized without anyone getting hurt," Gibbs said. _And you still managed to end up in the hospital, _he thought ruefully, unwilling to put voice to it lest Tony take it the wrong way."How do you know your headache isn't from a concussion?"

"Different kind of pain," Tony said, trying to follow the conversation and hoping Gibbs wouldn't notice how difficult it was. He tried to cover his confusion with a distraction. "I've found concussions radiate from a single point—usually whatever I managed to crack my head on. Lingering migraines leave a general all-over ache."

Gibbs eyed him. "So what you're telling me is that you're in pain?"

Tony frowned even as he tried not to smile. "Sneaky, Gibbs. Not nice."

Gibbs rolled his eyes and moved to get up.

"I'm fine, Boss," Tony said quickly, not wanting to attract a doctor's attention. He knew it would involve bright lights shined into eyes that hadn't quite recovered from the day's light assault.

"You're in a hospital now with damned good drugs close by," Gibbs said, looking down sternly at his agent. "There's no damned good reason for you to suffer, DiNozzo."

The words sparked a memory, and Tony spoke without thinking, "You're still mad at me for leaving my needles?"

Gibbs paused, his face giving away nothing. "We'll talk about this later," he said, thinking, _when you're not squinting at me and reminding me of you shrieking in pain. Or convulsing in my arms. _

"Gibbs."

Gibbs waited.

Tony cocked his head slightly. "I know I should have had my needles with me, Gibbs. I know I'm scary to be around when I get like that." He paused, studying his boss's face in the dim light. "And I know you didn't mean to snap at me. Okay?"

Gibbs felt torn between relief at Tony's being able to say what he probably couldn't have and sadness at the way his agent was looking at him as if _Tony_ were waiting to be forgiven. He mostly was just hoping Tony, who could obviously read him so well, also knew how much Gibbs cared for him even if he could never express it.

Gibbs nodded, swallowing the sudden emotions. "Okay, Tony."

* * *

Abby watched Tony's breathing from the doorway for a few moments before whispering, "Faker."

The agent's eyes snapped open. "Oh, sorry. I thought you were Gibbs."

Abby's expression darkened and Tony noticed both that and that she wasn't wearing makeup. He had a brief flash of memory of her sobbing, and he tried not to feel bad about that.

"You're still mad at him?" she asked tentatively, as if a positive result might crush her world.

Tony smiled. "Nah. We're good. We even talked. That's why I was faking. He looks exhausted and I thought maybe he would go home if he thought I was asleep."

Abby gave him a look. "He wouldn't."

"I know," Tony said simply.

She came and went to sit, grinning when he rolled his eyes at her and patted the bed next to him. She lay down beside him, carefully avoiding wires and IV lines with a practiced ease that she didn't want to think about. She put her head in the crook of his shoulder and rested a black-nailed hand on his chest, relishing the soft, steady rise and fall of his even breathing.

"I'm fine, Abbs," he said softly, turning his head and planting a kiss in her dark hair. "You can stop counting my respirations."

He felt her smile against his side, and he continued, "And I'm sorry about putting you through that."

"I'm sorry I couldn't stay beside you the whole time," she said, sighing and draping a black-clad leg over his thigh. She banished the knowledge that he was wearing nothing but a hospital gown—because they were strictly friends, and she wanted to keep it that way. She loved him too much for it to be any other way. "It was just so damned hard watching you…"

_Screaming,_ she thought, but she couldn't finish. He didn't really want her to. And she knew it.

"I'm just glad you're okay," she said. "And that Gibbs was there. I'm not sure I could have handled the seizure like he did."

Tony's hand tightened on her shoulder, making her feel perfectly safe in the circle of his arms. She could only hope that he was feeling as comforted by their closeness as she was.

"You would have handled it. You would have found a way."

She felt a rush of warmth at his absolute faith in her. "Yeah," she agreed, knowing she would do anything for him, "but Gibbs totally handled it. I mean, he practically jumped on you to keep you from hurting yourself, and I gotta tell you… even though I shouldn't… but I want to…"

"Spit it out, Abbs?" Tony requested, his confusion not a result of the seizure this time.

"Well, I know you two are both as straight as that arrow you found sticking through the dead JAG lady that one time," Abby said, making Tony turn bewildered eyes down to her face, "but it was kind of hot with Gibbs on top of you."

"Abby!" Tony cried, feeling his cheeks burn.

"I know," she said, trying not to laugh at the comical shock on his face. "And I know you were totally out of it and having a seizure and Gibbs was pleading with you to stop, but in all honesty, the only thing that got me through it without completely losing my mind was that one incredibly hot fantasy."

Tony was silent long enough for Abby to start worrying that she had offended him.

But he finally just said, with a smile in his voice, "You are one strange chick, Sciuto."

Abby grinned but tried to sound sad. "So my fantasy will being staying a fantasy, huh?"

"Um, yeah, Abbs," Tony said, shaking his head. "Gibbs is a lot of things, but he's also been like a father to me when I needed one."

"And you're like a son to him," Abby said, abandoning the fantasy. She read Tony's insecurity in his silence and she said, "Don't even try to lie to me, DiNozzo. You know he cares about you. It's why he yelled at you about the needles. Because it was killing him to see you hurting like that and it was beyond frustrating not being able to help you.

"You know he cares about you," she repeated into the silence.

"Yeah," Tony finally said, yawning and closing his eyes, his arm tightening around the Goth curled against his side. "I know."

* * *

Out in the hallway, Gibbs caught the very end of the conversation.

He smiled.

And went for more coffee.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: **Set after the second "Judgment Day" episode.

* * *

It was late and the squad room was empty save one solitary figure.

And the man leaning against the glass parapet above, watching him.

The man tugged at his jacket and frowned hard, watching his unwitting company go through his desk, with only the solitary glow of a lamp lighting his task.

DiNozzo sifted through piles of papers and the other assorted items in the drawers, the minutia collected over seven years of working—and eating and sleeping and practically living—in one place. Vance wondered why there was no box on the desk to collect the agent's personal items—until he realized there were no personal items. The only thing that made the apparent "to go" pile was a blue and black striped shirt pulled from the back of the file cabinet.

The director watched, wondering why he was even still here when he could be headed home to Jackie and the kids, as DiNozzo picked up the shirt with hands shaking hard enough to be noticeable from above and tossed it into the trash. Vance wondered what horrible memories the article of clothing held to earn it such a fate.

Vance saw DiNozzo turn slightly, and even though he didn't look up, Vance almost stepped back and walked away because he had known from the look on the agent's face earlier that his new orders had been a crushing blow to the young man. Vance felt a flicker of sympathy, remembering the shock and uncertainty in DiNozzo's eyes and the leaden way he had walked out of that office, his steps as heavy as if the director had chained an anchor around his neck before shipping him out to sea.

So Vance had seen DiNozzo's obvious pain, but that didn't mean he understood it. Gibbs was a grade-A bastard. So much so that Vance wasn't sure how he was going to work with him—and he couldn't imagine how anyone could work _for _him. But DiNozzo had done it for seven years, and Vance knew about the team lead position the agent had turned down. But that didn't mean he understood it.

Turning his attention back to the present, Vance noted that DiNozzo was simply staring down at the bottom drawer of his desk. The first thing that struck Vance was that DiNozzo was statue-still as he sat and stared, and while he didn't know Tony like his team did, the director had worked his predecessor's murder scene with the man and knew he was never still.

Not even when staring down at the death mask of the woman he was supposed to have been protecting.

Vance watched DiNozzo reach down a hand—still shaking, the ex-operative noted—but stop halfway to the drawer's handle. Vance had a fleeting thought that the thing was rigged to shoot confetti, given DiNozzo's reputation as a prankster and perpetual joker.

But then Vance caught sight of the agent's face in the blackened monitor on the desk. DiNozzo's eyes were closed and he was biting down on his lower lip so hard that Vance was surprised not to see blood in that shadowy reflection. Even with the distance between them, he could see the young man's anguish, and he suddenly had a flash of memory. It was of his father's funeral, and Vance knew that if he had been able to hold a mirror up to his pain that day, it would be very similar to what was showing on DiNozzo's face right now.

But still he didn't understand.

DiNozzo shook himself, and Vance leaned forward in anticipation of what the drawer would reveal. But instead of being spurred into action, DiNozzo went still as death again, the flutter of dark lashes against slightly paled cheeks his only movement. Vance's left foot tapped silently against the carpet as he watched DiNozzo breathe for a moment, wondering again why he wasn't just packing up and heading home. But he understood that one: His curiosity was about as legendary as Gibbs'.

So he stayed, watched and waited.

And tapped.

Finally, just as Vance was about to yell "Open the damned drawer already" down to him, DiNozzo reached forward and did just that. The director, who prided himself on his cool, collected appearance, almost screamed in frustration when DiNozzo pulled out a small, locked metal box.

DiNozzo opened the box to reveal… more little boxes. Vance almost laughed—until he saw the dim reflection of DiNozzo's pained eyes as his gaze slid to Gibbs' desk, letting the director know exactly whose medals the agent was holding in fiercely trembling hands.

Vance didn't even have time to think about the aptness of the multiple layers of security in relation to a man as guarded as DiNozzo because the agent suddenly shoved his chair back, bending forward at the waist as though gripped by sudden, crippling pain.

Vance thought he heard a gasp, but he was already moving toward the stairs, too busy wondering what the hell was making DiNozzo bury his face in his hands like that to question his hearing. The agent didn't seem to notice his director's approach, but that wasn't what made Vance stop short a few feet from DiNozzo's desk.

That was on account of the shaking shoulders and tears seeping through long fingers covering the agent's face.

Vance couldn't help himself. "Are you actually crying?" he asked, incredulous.

Instead of looking up, though, DiNozzo seemed to curl more tightly into himself at the outburst. Vance figured he was embarrassed and he evened out his tone. "Agent DiNozzo."

There was no response other than the agent's breathing picking up to pace at which it was audible in the silence of the squad room.

Vance was starting to lose patience—and he had no idea what to do, which was not something that happened to him often. He softened his tone as much as he could and said, "DiNozzo. Are you all right?"

That got a response, but it was so soft that the director missed it.

"What?" he said, thoroughly annoyed by the agent's dramatics and wishing he had just gone home to his family. He continued, making his voice even louder, "Speak up, DiNozzo."

There was another murmur, and the last of his patience slipped through Vance's loose grasp. He stepped forward and gave DiNozzo's shoulder a rough shake.

He barely stepped back in time as DiNozzo launched himself out of the chair and onto all fours, practically crawling to the trash can and promptly throwing up into it. Vance watched distastefully as DiNozzo heaved into the can, still on his hands and knees. When he was done, Vance slipped back into take-charge mode and shoved the can away so he could kneel in front of the agent. He put a firm hand under DiNozzo's chin and turned his face up to the light on the desk.

Vance wasn't sure what the sound was that came from low in DiNozzo's throat, but he was sure he had never heard anything like it before.

At least not from anything human.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Vance looked up just in time to see Gibbs striding across the room, his laserlike blue eyes narrowed in concern as he took in the state of his agent—his _former_ agent. Gibbs fairly shoved the director aside and pulled DiNozzo into his arms, letting the young man bury his face in his neck. Vance couldn't have been more shocked if Gibbs had announced Sheppard's death was not real and his promotion just a dream.

The director stood, backing away slowly as Gibbs put a hand on the back of DiNozzo's neck and simply held him close, using his body to block the offending light. For a moment, no one said a word and the only sound was the young agent's ragged breathing.

Looking over DiNozzo's shoulder at Vance, who was standing stone-still and bewildered, Gibbs said, "Turn off the light."

His voice was so low Vance wasn't sure he heard him right. He didn't move.

"Turn off the damned light," Gibbs said, his tone harsher but his volume no louder. When the director still did not move, he continued, "He gets migraines. And the light is hurting him. Turn. It. Off."

Vance finally complied, flipping the switch and throwing the room into semidarkness lit only by the moonlight streaming through the big windows. Vance heard DiNozzo's quiet sigh of pure relief—and realized from the look on Gibbs' face at that soft sound that the agent would get rid of the moonlight, too, if he could figure out how to turn it off with a glare.

Vance heard faint sounds and realized Gibbs was talking softly to the young man huddled in his arms as if seeking shelter from a storm. He couldn't make out a word of it and found himself leaning closer, as much to hear the words as to confirm that Gibbs—gruff, unbending, callous, grade-A bastard Gibbs—was actually speaking with such gentle concern.

"…needles," Gibbs was saying, his voice so low Vance had no idea how his agent could understand him.

DiNozzo might have responded. But it sounded to Vance more like a pained whimper—and the director found himself having trouble reconciling that with DiNozzo, who had been the picture of unyielding strength while processing their difficult crime scene in the desert.

Gibbs obviously understood him, though, because his mouth went tight, his eyes hard, and he said, "We'll talk about this later." He looked up at Vance. "There's a black case in the middle drawer. Get it."

Again, Vance didn't move, rooted to the floor both in confused silence and annoyance that Gibbs dared order _him_ around.

"Look," Gibbs hissed, his arms tightening slightly around the agent and giving Vance the distinct impression of a papa bear protecting his cub from a perceived threat. "You either help me help him or you get out."

Vance's mouth dropped open, but no words came. And neither did he follow either of Gibbs' instructions.

"He's upset enough already," Gibbs said, making Vance wonder if what little patience Gibbs possessed was to be used only for DiNozzo in this condition. "It's only making the pain worse for him." Gibbs glanced down at the young man who was writhing in his arms, obviously in serious pain. "Please."

"Gibbs, don't."

If Vance had been shocked by Gibbs' gentleness, then he was absolutely floored by the weakness in rock-solid-strong DiNozzo's voice. He followed Gibbs' order and found the case, handing it over without a word.

"Tony," Gibbs said, making the man's given name sound like a warning.

"Don' wan' it," came Tony's choked words.

Gibbs made a rude noise that made DiNozzo gasp. Vance watched as Gibbs pulled the agent closer and whispered something against his hair that Vance hoped like hell wasn't an apology—he knew all about Agent Gibbs' rules and he didn't like having so many illusions shattered all at once. Gibbs wrangled DiNozzo onto his back behind the desk, kneeling in the small space so his shadow was cast across the prone man's face.

Vance watched as Gibbs pulled a needle from the case. "Um, Agent Gibbs—"

"It's medication, Leon," Gibbs said, not bothering to look at him. He was too busy studying the agony on his agent's pale face. "My team doesn't need to keep speed in their desks to keep up with me runnin' 'em ragged."

Vance didn't say anything.

"This new team you stuck me with, though…" Gibbs muttered before his attention was called back to his charge as DiNozzo's hands fluttered up to swat at Gibbs'. Vance watched as Gibbs frowned hard and easily gathered DiNozzo's wrists in one hand, stuck the syringe sideways in his mouth and pulled the agent's shirt from his waistband. "Hold still," he whispered, making Vance wonder how anyone could barely breathe an order—and still convey the risk in disobeying it.

"Don't, Gibbs," DiNozzo said again, his own voice barely above a whisper even though Vance had the impression he was trying to yell as he weakly fought the grip Gibbs had on his wrists.

Gibbs just gave a shake of his head even as worry passed through his blue eyes. "All the needles are here, Tony. You didn't already inject…" Gibbs trailed off, realization in his eyes. "Dammit, DiNozzo."

There was frustration in the words, but they were still uttered softly. Vance didn't understand the frustration until Gibbs leaned down so that he was speaking almost directly into his agent's ear—and even though he felt silly, Vance found himself creeping closer and closer to hear the words.

"I told you Jenny was not your fault," Gibbs said, his hushed words daring DiNozzo to argue. "You're in pain, and I am not going to let you lie here and punish yourself for something that wasn't your fault."

"Gibbs—" DiNozzo started, only to be cut off.

The lead agent looked squarely at Vance, now only a few feet away thanks to his creeping, and he said, "You don't deserve any punishment at all for what happened to her."

The director did not speak. He just watched Gibbs turn his gaze back to his uncooperative patient, watched their eyes lock and have a conversation with no whispered words needed. Without so much as a nod or a blink from DiNozzo, Gibbs released his wrists, found an alcohol wipe in the case and brushed it across the young man's stomach. Vance flinched a little when the needle breached DiNozzo's skin even though Gibbs had made the injection with practiced ease and the suffering agent didn't make a sound.

Gibbs settled in beside his charge as if he might be there a while, scooting over to allow DiNozzo to curl up in a ball that seemed too small for the lanky agent. Gibbs took DiNozzo's hand in his, and Tony's cheeks went slightly red. He opened his mouth, but Gibbs gave that hand a little shake, wordlessly but effectively cutting off the protest.

Vance took a step back and took in the surreal tableau of Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs stroking a gentle hand down his senior agent's arm, his touch providing obvious comfort as DiNozzo began to relax almost immediately. Feeling out of place in what was now his squad room and hating the hell out of it, Vance said, "He needs to lie down somewhere other than the floor. Bring him up to my office."

"First," Gibbs growled, "lower your damned voice. Second, he's not moving anywhere until he stops gasping in pain."

"He's not—" Vance stopped cold at Gibbs' glare and actually listened—and could hear the gulped breaths catching in DiNozzo's throat.

Gibbs turned icy eyes up to his director. "That's him trying not to scream, Leon," he said coldly. "And if he'd taken his medication sooner, he wouldn't be hurting like this right now."

Vance held up a hand. "Hey, now, Agent Gibbs. I didn't force him to do—or not do anything."

Gibbs just rolled his eyes. "Give him some credit, _Director_," he said, emphasizing the title with heavy sarcasm. "He didn't inject himself because he knew you were watching him from up on your throne."

"So why did you—"

"Quiet," Gibbs ordered, leaning down to whisper what Vance would have called an apology had it been anyone else. "Go home. I've got him."

Vance stared back steadily for a long moment, wondering how many pissing contests he and Gibbs would have to get into before they could work together—if they ever could.

But loyalty was something that Vance valued—and he could think of nothing more loyal than ordering an outsider away, a new superior no less, in order to protect one of his own. And Vance could see that Gibbs inspired that kind of loyalty in those who could last with him more than a week. DiNozzo had barely batted an eye at Gibbs' plunging that needle into his belly. It made Vance realize he had chosen well for the mission at hand.

With thoughts toward the future—toward the almighty endgame called diplomacy—he headed for stairs, saying, "I'll move his departure back a few days to give him some time to recover." Vance found hopeful green eyes suddenly staring straight at him. He gave his head a little shake.

"And to pack."

* * *

Tony could have kicked himself—if it were even possible in his current curled-up position.

He knew from the look on Vance's face, and from the slight squeeze from Gibbs, that his fleeting hope had showed on his face. He hadn't meant for it to be so obvious, but his masks were never up to full strength in this weakened state. The pain was still intense and it was making him dizzy—and making him grateful for the grounding that Gibbs' gentle touch was giving him.

A part of him hated it, though, and it was the same part that was screaming inside his aching head that he had better get over needing the comfort Gibbs provided, during the migraines and otherwise. He knew he should shove away and deal with the pain on his own, that he shouldn't even allow himself the help he had slowly gotten used to.

That he should never have gotten used to in the first place.

If there was one thing his childhood had taught him—besides the value of tight, dark places in which to hide—it was that relying on anyone other than himself would only bring pain. No matter how many times his father made promises, no matter how caring that coach had seemed, no matter how sober his mother had been one day… They all let him down in the end.

But even his agonized brain knew that wasn't right this time.

Gibbs hadn't let him down.

He had let Gibbs down by letting Jenny go off and get herself killed in a dusty desert diner.

So no matter how gentle Gibbs' touch was right now, as he lay on the floor wondering if his head was going to cave in from the pain and pressure, Tony knew the man likely wanted nothing to do with him. Hell, Tony figured his migraine was probably just a convenient weapon to use against Vance, a way to one-up the new director and win an early battle.

Now that he had served his purpose, Tony figured it was time to go—past time, considering Gibbs probably hated even looking at him right now and wanted to be as far away from his worthless agent as possible.

_You're not _his _agent anymore_, a voice whispered above the pounding in his head. _You're nothing to him now. _

Tony couldn't help the pained little sound that escaped his throat. But he blamed it on the pain crushing his skull like an anatomical trash compactor.

"Easy, Tony," Gibbs whispered, his hand tightening on Tony's. "You're okay. Just let the medication work."

Tony's breath hitched at the kind words—and again when he realized it didn't matter if he did or didn't get used to Gibbs being there for him to help him through the pain. He was going to have to deal with it on his own anyway once he was at sea. He knew an agent afloat is inherently vulnerable because of the lack of backup and damned if he was going to make himself more so by revealing his sometimes debilitating condition. Sure, he would make certain he packed a hell of a lot of drugs and monitored his symptoms vigilantly, but there was little else he could do.

If he got blindsided by the painful migraines while at sea, then he would just have to suffer through them.

Alone.

He gave a little sigh, knowing it wasn't anything new because he had dealt with plenty of his headaches alone as a child. Just thinking about his childhood made him finally recognize the sick feeling that had been dogging him since that moment in Vance's office. He had felt exactly the same way when his father had called him into his study and, with no warning, told him he would soon be attending the prestigious Rhode Island Military Academy—and if he wanted to take anything with him, he had damned well better get packing.

Tony remembered crying silent tears as he had put random things into a bag without any real thought about what he actually needed. Because what he had actually needed was an explanation as to what he had done to make his father not want him anymore.

Tony choked on a harsh breath as he realized he had no such problem this time around: Jenny's bloody corpse had invaded his dreams nightly to remind him of what he had done wrong.

"Even out your breathing, Tony," Gibbs' soft order cut into his downwardly spiraling thoughts. "I know it hurts. Just breathe. We'll get you through this. We always do."

The kind words made Tony's chest go even tighter, and before he knew it, he was gasping in a near-panic. He put his hands flat against the floor, his body demanding he sit up but too weak to make it happen. His raspy breathing, choked by an emotion-constricted throat, began to saw in and out of plague-scarred lungs and compounded the problem. Black spots began to dance across his vision, popping in front of his eyes like monochromatic fireworks. The near-panic had whipped itself into a full-on terror, and Tony closed his eyes, trying desperately to give in to the darkness.

"Oh no you don't, DiNozzo."

Tony felt strong hands on his arms, hauling him upright. Too weak to sit up and too exhausted and wrung out to care about being embarrassed, he collapsed against the solidness of Gibbs' chest and found his breathing slowing, his lungs catching up with his body's need for oxygen. They stayed like that for several moments, Gibbs supporting his agent and letting him get his bearings.

"That's it," Gibbs said, the familiarity of his voice and the hand on the back of his neck making Tony feel worse this time instead of better. Gibbs felt his tension and spoke with a soothing tone he used only during the worst of the migraines. "You're okay, Tony. Just keep breathing. You're gonna be just fine. You'll get through this."

_The headache, maybe_, Tony thought, trying to shove away all other thoughts. He knew stressing over his deployment would only make things worse, but it was all he could think about, knowing this was the last time Gibbs would be obligated to help him through the agony. A long-buried memory of one of his first times with Gibbs and the migraines surfaced, and he found his thoughts prophetic: _You're so stupid sometimes. You know better than to let people in like this. They only end up hurting you._

_At least this time, I'll be the one doing the leaving, _he thought. And then mentally rolled his eyes—because the real thing simply hurt too much. _I always do the leaving: to military school, to college, all those police departments. _He tried not to think about the one time he had chosen to stay, when the director had offered him his own team, both because it hurt to think of Jenny's smile—pretty as that bouquet of flowers that day—and because of the pain that welled up every time he thought about leaving this place, leaving his home. It might have taken him a while to find it, but he knew this was where he belonged. It was simply _home. _

_And now it's gone._

"Stop thinking about it," Gibbs said softly, apparently reading his mind.

"You don't have to stay, Gibbs," Tony returned quietly, carefully avoiding the term "boss" as he had been all night, despite the migraine. No headache pain could compare with knowing his boss just wasn't anymore. He pulled out of the comforting embrace and immediately flopped back down onto his back, his arm over his face to block out the minimal light still stinging his eyes.

"Hey," Gibbs said, still softly but also sternly. "Look at me."

Tony knew instinctively that Gibbs was leaning over him to block the moonlight so he turned slightly and complied, finding himself staring up into troubled blue eyes.

"You honestly think, after all these years, that I'd just leave you lying here?"

"Things change, Boss," Tony said tiredly, letting his eyes slip closed again. They popped open when he realized his mistake. "I mean, you're not even my boss anymore. I'm not your problem anymore."

Gibbs was silent a moment. "You really believe that, Tony?"

"We both _know_ you're not my boss anymore, Gibbs. Vance just—"

"DiNozzo."

Tony pried his eyes open again and took a deep breath to tame the lingering pain. He stared straight into Gibbs' icy blue eyes and said, "I know I'm nothing to you. You don't have to stay and pretend anymore because I'm no longer your obligation."

It took Tony a minute to identify the emotion that flashed through Gibbs' eyes as rage, but he understood when the man spoke. "It's a damned good thing your father doesn't live anywhere near here." He shook his head quickly before focusing on Tony's face again. "You gonna make me say it?"

Tony's eyes squeezed shut and he blew out a breath. "I know I got Jenny killed—"

"Dammit, Tony!" Gibbs exploded. He saw his agent's flinch and put a gentle hand on the side of his face. "Shit, sorry. You okay?"

A quick shudder ran through Tony's body, but he nodded. " 'M fine."

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "If I could, I'd headslap ya into tomorrow for that." He gave a little sigh. "For that _and_ for thinking you got Jenny killed. I meant it when I said it wasn't your fault."

Tony stubbornly refused to comment on that.

So Gibbs tried again. "How often do I placate you, DiNozzo?"

Tony didn't answer, and Gibbs gave him a nudge in the ribs with his bent knee.

"Never," Tony said, begrudgingly. He looked Gibbs in the eyes. "You really don't blame me? I was on protection detail for the director. And she came home in a body bag."

Gibbs managed not to wince at that visual. "A protection detail she sent away. She knew trouble was coming and she didn't want to get you or Ziva killed because of her past mistake. She did what she did. You followed orders. Deal with it."

Tony almost smiled at that. Until he remembered it wouldn't matter if Gibbs forgave him because he was leaving anyway.

"Hey," Gibbs said, mind-reading again. He frowned hard. "Okay, listen to me. You listening?"

Tony nodded, unnerved by Gibbs' tone.

"You better listen 'cause if I have to sound like one of your Hallmark movies of the week, I'm only doing it once. You got me?"

Tony nodded again, now mystified—and wondering if he had passed out and was now dreaming.

"You're one of mine, DiNozzo," Gibbs said. He held up a hand to stop the protest. "Whether you're behind this desk or in the middle of the ocean, doesn't matter." His eyes skittered away for a second before coming back and landing squarely on Tony's. "Whether or not you work for this agency, Tony, you're one of mine."

He let that sink in for a moment.

"And I take care of my own."

Tony felt the knot in his chest ease just the tiniest bit and he found a smile. "Thanks, Boss."

Gibbs grinned. "Even when you're lying down on the job _behind_ this desk," he said, offering a hand to his agent. "Come on. I'll take you home so you can get some rest. I'll even help you pack."

Tony's smile didn't fade as Gibbs helped him up, keeping his hands protectively on him until he was sure Tony could stand on his own. Tony watched Gibbs collect the medals that Tony had been agonizing over earlier, place them back in the box and then back in the drawer.

"Those stay there until you get back," he said simply.

"I might like you as my not-Boss, Boss," Tony said as they made their way to the elevator. "You're nicer this way."

Gibbs gave Tony the gentlest headslap on record. "Shut up, DiNozzo," he said, affectionately.

And then he laughed out loud when Tony reached up and returned the gesture before walking calmly into the elevator.

Gibbs entered and gave Tony an incredulous look. "Did you just headslap me?"

"Yep," Tony said, resting against the side of the car. "I figured since you're not my boss right now…"

Gibbs thought about that for a moment and then shrugged. "Fair enough," he said, sliding a sidelong glance at his agent, who still looked pale and tired—but he also had a sparkle back in his eyes. "So you gonna tell me what it was for?"

"Because after all these years you don't even know me, Boss," Tony said, sighing dramatically. He broke into a grin. "I wouldn't be caught dead watching a Hallmark movie."


	16. Chapter 16

"You look like crap, DiNozzo."

Tony knew that.

What he didn't know was how the squad room had gone from bright and bustling to dark and deserted without his noticing the transition.

Hell, he still didn't know how the sun managed to shine with her gone.

_Did I fall asleep?_ he thought with a small jolt of hope. _Was it all a dream?_

The barren desk across from him confirmed his living nightmare, clipping the wings of that fledgling hope with swift brutality. The empty workspace mocked him, mirrored his own aching vacancy. He hadn't been in love with her when she had made that quick transition from here to gone, but that didn't mean she hadn't taken irretrievable pieces of him with her when she went.

He ignored corny thoughts of missing bits of heart and soul, and he realized some of those departed pieces might be of his mind. He couldn't seem to focus anymore, and anything he managed to latch onto, however briefly, never quite seemed real. He hadn't even noticed when Gibbs left, his comment on his agent's appearance not so much ignored as unabsorbed.

Tony wasn't worried, because he figured his boss understood. He also knew the comment wasn't a cruel jab—a kick when he was already so far down the concept of "up" was as foreign as Arabic. No, he knew it was a subtle expression of concern from a man who rarely expressed anything. Tony had a feeling Gibbs was at a store right now, buying the biggest steak he could find just on the off chance he might need to share it later.

That knowledge—that easy acceptance of the covert kindness—had tears stinging the backs of Tony's tired green eyes, and he shook his head fiercely, realizing too late the movement was more likely to dislodge them from their precarious posts than banish them to the land of "DiNozzo men don't cry."

_So you'll shed tears over a side of beef, but not your dead partner?_ he thought, blinking a few times before sighing and shaking his head in disgust. _Great. _

Tony didn't remember gathering his things, but he was suddenly in the elevator, wanting desperately to give in and go to Gibbs. His need to feel something normal—to feel a part of the land of the living again—was so intense it was painful, but Tony, finding himself suddenly in his car, headed for home. He was dreading lying down to sleep even though his exhausted body was practically screaming for rest, his eyelids so heavy he closed them alternately in hopes the short rests would see him home.

He ignored the bars on the way to his apartment even though the thought of losing himself in a warm body was seriously tempting. But he resisted. He knew when he finally could avoid it no longer and fell into bed to sleep, he would not find himself alone.

* * *

The sensation of coming awake was followed by a sharp, startled intake of breath as his eyes found her in the dark. She was facing the window, her dark hair spilling down her back and disappearing into the shadows of his bedroom.

"I…" he said softly, feeling the familiar tightness in his chest at seeing her. "I lie down here every night, hoping you'll stay away."

She turned slightly, soft brown eyes luminous with a gentle concern he could rarely remember seeing in her when she was alive. Or maybe he just preferred to remember her catty and full of sparkling life.

"And then," he whispered thickly, practically choking on the words, "I wonder if that's what I really want."

"I could go," she said, turning with a wry smile that left him gutted like a fresh kill. "It is, after all, entirely up to you."

His eyes closed in pain—only to fly open again in fear of her disappearance. "Stay. Please."

"All right," she said, turning back to the window to watch moonlit rain streak down the glass.

He simply watched her for a moment, but she began to fade with the silence and he called out, half in a panic. "Ziva?"

"Yes?" she asked, turning back to him and stepping slightly closer, studying his face carefully. "That sounded like a question."

He bit his lip and looked down, shamed. He admitted, "It isn't always you."

She ran a hand through her dark hair, inexplicably straight even though his favorite memories of her featured it wild and untamable—much like the woman herself. _Much like she _had been_ when she was alive_, he reminded himself, feeling the ache growing in his chest and wondering why his psyche felt the need to torture him like this. _What good could possibly come from all this pain? _

"Kate?" she ventured, her eyes softening even more as he flinched at his _other_ dead partner's name.

He nodded, swallowing hard before he could speak—unable to believe this was happening _again_. "Sometimes. Sometimes you. Sometimes my mother." He looked away, leaning over and taking Kate's pendant from his nightstand, needing something to do with his hands, and he admitted, "I can't always tell you all apart at first."

She seemed more concerned than offended, and she pulled a page from his book and tried to joke, "That desk must be cursed."

He flinched, feeling a bomb blast deep in his soul as he dropped the necklace onto the tabletop. "Not the desk. We wouldn't let Paula sit there after Kate… and you know what happened to her."

She sighed as she moved closer, and he noticed her clothes—that silky green dress and strappy shoes from their undercover assignment—were soaking wet, as if she had been out in the rain falling softly beyond the glass. His face was suddenly throbbing and he raised a shaky hand to his lip, his eyes going wide as his fingers came away bloody.

She cocked her head as she studied him, a sad smile creeping across her face. "Find some other memory, Tony," she said gently. "One that does not hurt so much."

He raised eyes as wet as her dress to her pretty face. "They all hurt now."

His unshed tears spilled down her face and she moved closer, sitting sopping on the bed beside him, her wet body soaking his as she lay down next to him. The tightness in his chest turned to crushing pain and he gasped, recognizing the suddenly blue hue of the room as he struggled to breathe. He heard gasps coming from beside him, and he turned, expecting to find Kate dying in his place as she often did on these bad nights.

But he found Ziva lying beside him, drenched and equally breathless, and he realized with horror that he was seeing her exactly as she had died, suffocating under the massive weight of that foreign ocean.

He turned his eyes back to the ceiling in an attempt to escape her suffering, but he couldn't block it out—not the sodden images of her death, and certainly not her panic.

So for a long while, they lay side by side, drowning—Ziva in her watery tomb of the sinking Damocles and Tony in his own plague-sunken lungs.

The water lapped at his sides, a calm killer taking its sweet time in taking his life. At least the migraine he felt brewing wouldn't have a chance to lay claim to him after all. The last thing he saw before he slipped under was the clock, glowing a bleary red 3:31.

* * *

The sensation of waking was punctuated with a harsh gasp, and Tony sat bolt upright, gulping in sweet breath after terrified breath.

"Goddamn," he whispered, rubbing his hands over his face and cursing the vivid dream.

For more reasons than one.

He stood, groaning when the ache in his temples grew instantly into a monster, complete with dripping fangs and claws designed for efficient torture. Making his way out of the room was slow going because he had to stop to steady himself, leaning on his dresser, the wall, the doorframe. He ignored the dampness of his body, telling himself repeatedly it was sweat from the nightmare and not remnants of his and Ziva's near-drownings.

A glance at the clock told him it was 3:29, and he decided to hold off on calling Gibbs. Waking his boss in the dead of night to tell him he probably wouldn't be coming in to work was a bad, bad idea.

The nausea hit like a sledgehammer to the gut just as he stepped into the bathroom, and he yelped as he banged his knee on the cabinet trying to make it to the toilet before throwing up, the inexplicable smell of death—his most rare symptom—telling him this one was going to be a doozy. He gagged for several long minutes, bringing up a dinner he didn't remember eating, before slumping weakly against the wall. He knew he needed to get to his needles while he still could, but the drawer holding the little black case suddenly seemed a thousand miles away. Thoughts of the possible seizures that came with these really bad ones had him thinking again about calling Gibbs, but he realized with a soft sigh that he had left his cell beside his bed.

He crawled across the linoleum, wincing at the pain in his bruised knee and wondering if the District was in the throes of a rare earthquake, considering how the floor seemed to pitch and roll beneath him. He finally reached the case—after what seemed like days—and made quick work of the injection, ironically glad he had so much practice it felt like there were hands on his in the darkness, guiding them through the motions.

The softness of his bed and insanely high thread-count sheets called to him, but he threw an arm over his throbbing head and blocked everything out, focusing only on breathing through the pain. He shivered as he felt a draft brush over him, and for a second, he could swear he heard Ziva singing softly in Hebrew amid the cacophony of anguish in his head. He knew the feel of her small hand brushing his damp hair off his forehead was impossible, but he didn't really care right then. It was just too soothing to wish it away.

He imagined the migraine as a vise clamped around his agonized brain and he pictured her slowly turning back the jaws that gripped him, easing the crushing pain turn … by turn … by turn …

* * *

The sensation of coming awake was followed by confusion as Tony found himself back in his bed, his head feeling rather fine. He figured he must have dragged himself back in here and just didn't remember it. It wasn't surprising considering how often he found himself blanking out for long stretches of time.

He yawned and checked the alarm clock beside his bed, the numbers glowing a hazy red 3:21.

"You should get some rest."

Tony about gave himself whiplash as his head jerked toward the figure at his window. He had no trouble identifying Ziva this time, thanks to the soft tangle of wild curls catching the moonlight.

"Maybe if you'd leave me alone," he muttered, turning on his side with his back to the apparition.

"You know I'm not really here, right?" she returned, unperturbed by her host's rudeness.

_Of course you're not. You're dead,_ he thought, wishing with everything in him that that didn't have to be true. "Of course you're not," he said, masking his anguish with flippancy. "You would never use a contraction like 'I'm'."

She smiled, laughing lightly and making his entire being go numb at the impossibly happy sound. He was surprised that his subconscious had apparently captured the sound so well it felt like she was right there in the room with him. He thought about getting up to try to touch her, but his oh-so comfortable bed just wouldn't let him move.

"You could simply order me away, Tony," she said matter-of-factly. "This is your dream."

"Somehow I doubt you'd listen to me even in my own dream," he said.

"Orders are orders," she said, her eyes taking on a strange light. A memory hit him hard and her ghost repeated words spoken harshly in an elevator: "You do not always like them. But you follow them. That is why they are called _orders_."

He studied her, the green dress from his previous nightmare turning into the jeans and simple tan shirt she had worn in Israel, on the last day he had seen her alive. He felt suddenly angry, his previously broken arm throbbing in time with his elevating pulse. He threw back the blankets and stood, stepping into his spectral visitor's space and rising to his full height to stare down at her.

The room turned arid and he could see little dots of sweat begin to stand out on her flawless skin. He squinted slightly under the suddenly glaring sun burning brightly overhead.

"And what would you say, Zee-vah," he said, smiling tightly, "if I told you I was only following orders that night?"

She lifted her chin and glared back. "I would say you are lying. To save your worthless ass, perhaps?"

The words hurt no less the second time around. And if he was honest with himself, he would admit it was more like the thousandth time around because he had replayed their confrontation over and over again in his head, practically on a loop, since that day.

And though he knew the futility of arguing with his own subconscious, he also knew his recent mental state had roots of more than just pain and shock and guilt. He was angry, too—angry she had thought him jealous when he was simply trying to protect her, angry she had knocked him on his ass and screamed in hi s face, angry she hadn't just gotten on the damned plane and given them a chance to sort it all out.

"Gibbs shared my concerns about Rivkin. And he _ordered_ me to stay on it," Tony said, unable to take any sort of sense of victory from her widened eyes.

She regained her composure quickly and nodded. "Ah. So you were just being a good little soldier," she said calmly, but her eyes had started to flash, "when you shot him four times in the chest."

The rage in her eyes had him feeling as if those bullets were suddenly lodged in _him. _"You really would rather he killed me," Tony said softly, his voice low and pained as he waited for her to refute that anguished statement.

He knew it was his dream and his subconscious could make her say whatever he wanted. The problem was that he had believed her that day when she had all but wished him dead. And he knew if by some miracle he could talk to her one last time, he wouldn't ask her. It had hurt too much hearing it the first time, and he wanted no confirmation of its terrible veracity.

But apparently his subconscious had other ideas.

Ziva's face twisted with hate, her pretty features darkening dangerously and reminding him of the assassin she had once been. He stepped quickly backward, nearly tripping over Rivkin's bloody corpse in his haste to get away from the woman he had once trusted with his life. His breath caught in his throat as she stooped and plucked the red-streaked shard from her dead boyfriend's lifeless grip.

"Ziva, please," he breathed, trying to hold up his hands and panicking at finding them pinned to his sides.

She advanced on him, her mouth opening but nothing spilling out but murky water. She looked at him with anguish even as she backed him into a corner, the tip of the shard inches from his belly. Soon her whole body was drenched and he watched in absolute horror as her eyes when white as they rolled back in her head, her rotting flesh beginning to slough from her small frame. The makeshift blade was still firmly in her hand, though, and her dripping, dangerous form was a perfect picture of his warring guilt and anger over her death. He wanted to hate her simply so it would hurt less that she was gone, but his guilt and grief wouldn't let him make her into a monster to ease that intense ache.

Except in his dreams.

The thing that was once his vivacious partner looked less and less like Ziva as it leaned in, leaving a patch of wetness on his skin. The only recognizable parts of her were her eyes, which had focused on him again, alternately pleading with him for help and glowing with infernal hatred.

"Please, Ziva," he whispered again, crying out in shock and pain as she shoved the shard deep into his belly.

"I am so very sorry, Tony," she said, suddenly realizing what she had done and clamping her hands over the bleeding wound. "I am so, so sorry."

He looked up at her and found her pretty face intact, her brown eyes full of worry and regret.

"I will take care of you," she said, her hands taking the pain from his stomach. "I am here, Tony. Do not worry. I will help you."

And he believed her.

* * *

The sensation of waking was followed by a terse order from a voice he always obeyed. Always.

"Hold still, DiNozzo."

Tony realized the stabbing pain in his belly hadn't returned from the dream but was from Gibbs injecting him with his migraine medication.

"Shit. Boss. What? Don't!"

The words came out in a rush and Tony flicked a glance at the clock in a panic, unsure which of his dreams were real—if any. The time was 3:57, and that left Tony even more confused. The sight of Kate's pendant beside the open case had him wondering if Gibbs had recognized it when he pulled it out along with the needles—and why he had done that.

Gibbs looked down at the empty syringe in his hand and said, "Too late." He watched Tony put a shaky hand over the injection site. "Are you okay?"

The pain in his head suddenly registered and Tony turned over, burying his face in the pillow and groaning. He felt Gibbs' hand on the back of his neck and for a moment he could do nothing but breathe and hope for it to be over soon. But then he remembered the case on the nightstand and he fought his way up from the pit of agony.

"Case," he gasped. "Where?"

It took Gibbs a second to realize the question and he answered, "Bedside drawer." His hand continued its soothing strokes. "I checked the one in the bathroom, too. It was full."

Tony relaxed, realizing his trip down the hall had been nothing but a dream. He ignored the foul taste in his mouth, knowing it wouldn't have been the first time Gibbs had cleaned up puke without needing to say a word about it. _Someday_, Tony thought, no longer ashamed by how much Gibbs' touch helped him through these bouts of hell, _I'll find a way to thank him. For everything. _

When Tony finally stirred under that calloused hand, he squinted up at his boss. "Sorry, Gibbs."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "For thinking I'd try to kill ya?"

Tony smiled groggily—until memories of his nightmare came flooding back. "I don't think doubling doses would kill me anyway," he said, blaming the slight shake in his voice on the combination of the migraine and the dreams that had left him feeling weak and exhausted.

"Didn't when you saved Ziva from that maniac on Christmas Eve," Gibbs said quietly.

Tony had the distinct feeling Gibbs had put that out there to gauge his reaction to the woman's name, but he didn't know why—it wasn't like Gibbs could have seen his nightmares. He faked a smile and said, "I thought _you_ might kill me that day."

"You should have stayed in the damned car," Gibbs returned, remembering the fear that had cut through him upon arriving in that alley to find Ziva kneeling with bloody hands pressed to Tony's body. "Bastard could've killed you."

"He could've killed her, too," Tony argued, but there was little fight in his voice. He pressed his palms into aching eye sockets and whispered, "Like it matters now."

"Hey," Gibbs said, softly but firmly, gently squeezing the back of Tony's neck. "She made her choices."

Tony was silent, hoping Gibbs would be Gibbs and let the emotional topic drop. He kept his eyes closed, trying to keep his breathing even and hoping he could just pass out. Hoping his sleep could be dreamless, for once.

But Gibbs spoke a few moments later, his voice still low in deference to the lingering pain he knew Tony was feeling. "If either of us should feel guilty, don't you think it should be me?"

Tony faked sleep even though he knew he couldn't get away with it. And he couldn't. He gave in when Gibbs' hand tightened slightly on his neck again. "I'm the one who killed her boyfriend," he said, picturing the man's corpse on his carpet in vivid detail.

"I'm the one who left her standing on the tarmac," Gibbs said, the admission carrying a hint of emotion Tony wasn't used to hearing from his boss.

Tony sighed, seeing the pain in Gibbs' eyes and remembering he wasn't the only one hurting over Ziva's death. "We should've dragged her skinny butt on the plane and not taken 'no' for an answer."

"_I_ should have," Gibbs said, his eyes flicking to Tony's left arm. "You weren't in any shape to do it yourself."

The powerful drugs were pulling him down toward sleep, but Tony fought it and said, "She probably would have shot me."

There was a brief pause, and then Gibbs said, almost reluctantly, "Surprised she didn't when she had you flat on your back over there." He watched Tony's eyes snap open at that, and he added, "_Glad _she didn't, too."

"How…?" Tony trailed off, mystified.

Gibbs got up and moved to the window—unknowingly mimicking Ziva's movements from Tony's dreams—because he was feeling a little guilty at using his agent's weakened condition to force a conversation he knew they would likely never have otherwise. But Gibbs had seen the vacancy in Tony's eyes lately, the way he was simply going through the motions, and he felt like he needed to do something. Any good CO would, after all.

"You had dirt on the back of your suit," Gibbs answered. "Only on the left side of your pants, though. I'm guessing you took your jacket off and shook it out."

Tony nodded mutely, unsurprised Gibbs had noticed—and made the right deduction. "How did you know it was her?"

Gibbs turned from the rain-streaked glass and gave him a look, but still he answered, "You would have told me if it had been anyone but her."

Tony nodded again, slowly, wanting to spill every last hurtful detail of that day. But he didn't. He wasn't sure if he could, not while knowing she might be dead because of him.

Seeing both the hesitation and the exhaustion on Tony's face, Gibbs decided to go for broke. "You said her name when I was trying to inject you," he said, still wondering what Tony had been dreaming about and knowing instinctively that it probably had some basis in memory. "What did she do to you, Tony?"

"Knocked me flat on my back," Tony said, knowing he wouldn't get away with the non-answer.

Gibbs lifted an eyebrow, not needing to add the "And?" for his agent to hear it.

Tony sighed again, too tired to lie and not even sure he wanted to. "And shoved a loaded gun into my gut and insinuated she might rather be having the conversation with Rivkin."

Gibbs was floored by that—and he let much of his shock show on his face, because he wanted Tony to see it, to know that what Ziva had said and done that day was not okay. "You didn't deserve that, Tony."

Green eyes blinked slowly and Tony wondered if he was dreaming again. An uncomfortable little laugh bubbled up his throat and he shrugged. "I guess that means she would have been at least slightly pissed at him had he killed me. I think."

"DiNozzo," Gibbs said sharply. But then he realized he had no idea what to say to that. It hadn't been the first time Tony had taken a life to protect his own, but the circumstances of that night were … unusual, for sure.

Gibbs recalled that night with a small amount of shame, knowing he had been so focused on Ziva and her loss that he hadn't even realized his injured agent had no way home from the hospital. Not that Tony had gone home right away anyway. Gibbs found out later that Tony had obeyed his "Go write it up" order immediately, catching a cab from the hospital to the office.

He softened his tone and said, "You should sleep."

"Wish I could," Tony said—and then he seemed to realize it. His cheeks were tinged with red as he admitted, "The other half of my dreams are of her drowning."

Gibbs' eyes were sympathetic, but still he had no words.

Tony's frustration was evident when he spoke. "They never found her… body. So no funeral. We didn't even have a memorial service. And I don't wanna remember the last words she said to me." Tony's eyes were full of pain as he looked to his mentor, as if for help. "So we just hire someone new and replace Ziva like we replaced Kate? How the hell are we supposed to go on when she's just… gone?"

Gibbs stood there, feeling Tony's pain—because it was his own, too. He gave his friend the only answer he could, the only one he knew. "Any way you can, Tony."

After a long moment, Tony gave a small nod, wincing as he ran his hand through sweat-soaked hair.

Gibbs read the gesture and nodded down the hall. "I'll stay while you get cleaned up." He watched Tony sit up and throw the blankets back, both of them surprised at the dampness of the bedding. It looked like someone had tossed a bucket over the bed. "You got clean sheets somewhere?" he asked, his sharp eyes gauging Tony's steadiness as he moved across the room.

"I can—"

Gibbs glared.

Tony pointed to the bottom drawer of the dresser and headed for the shower, too tired to fight and knowing it was pointless anyway. He stopped, leaning heavily against the doorframe and saying, "Thanks, Boss. For everything."

Gibbs finished dumping a pillow out of its soggy case and gave him a nod, along with a shooing motion.

Tony smiled, but it turned to a frown when his eyes caught a tiny dot of a bruise on his kneecap. He wasn't entirely sure what it meant or why it had him feeling slightly unsettled so he shrugged it off and turned away.

"Gibbs?" he said, facing his boss again and getting an impatiently raised eyebrow in return. "How did you get here?"

"Drove," Gibbs said, eyeing his agent more critically.

Tony rolled his eyes and was relieved to find it didn't make his head explode. "How did you know to come?"

Blue eyes narrowed even more, and Gibbs asked, "You don't remember calling me?"

"No," Tony said honestly, shaking his head slowly. "What did I say?"

Gibbs shrugged and shucked the top sheet from the bed. "Didn't say anything." He saw Tony's thoughtful frown and continued, "Figured you were in rough shape. That's why I didn't try to wake you before giving you the injection."

Tony was silent, staring at the floor as something nagged at his tired brain. "What time was that?"

Blue eyes searched the ceiling for a moment, and Gibbs answered, "0330, about. You sure you're all right?" he asked, genuine concern in the question. "Shit, Tony, you're bleeding."

He glanced down and found a spot of bright-red blood on his gray T-shirt, and he pulled it up to find a jagged little mark at the injection site. "I must have moved when you gave me the shot. No big deal."

"Sure?" Gibbs asked, looking more and more unnerved himself.

Tony nodded, his eyes landing on his cell beside the bed. "How did you know where I was?"

Gibbs followed his gaze and shook his head, wondering what was with the sudden interrogation. Tony usually liked to forget about the details of his episodes—and Gibbs didn't blame him. "Call came from your landline, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, pulling the bottom sheet from the mattress and dropping it into the sodden pile at the foot of the bed. "Must've been a hell of a migraine, Tony. These sheets are soaked."

Tony just gave him a shrug and headed down the hall to get cleaned up. He found himself smiling through the entire hot shower, even as little shivers ran down his spine. His grin got wider as he toweled off and caught sight of the small bruise again. It could have been nothing. But he didn't believe that.

The slight knock on the door made him jump a bit, but it was Gibbs' voice that came through the thin panel.

"Do _not_ come in today, DiNozzo. Get some rest."

His front door closed just as he opened the bathroom door, and Tony went to lie down, savoring the clean, dry sheets beneath his body, practically quivering with some mixture of excitement and trepidation, hope and fear.

He would go into the office later that day.

And when Gibbs told them to gear up, Tony would stand up and firmly say "No."

Because Gibbs had told him to move on in any way he could. And Tony figured that just might include finding Ziva and saving her.

He knew she was still alive.

Knew it as surely as he knew he had disconnected his landline a month ago.


	17. Chapter 17

At the end of an investigation, when the questions were answered and the dirtbag dealt with, Gibbs' gut usually settled.

Not always for long—he'd once had dispatch call with another body within five minutes of collecting his team's reports.

But there was always a lull, however short.

But not now.

Gibbs looked around, scanning the faces of his team and noting that they all looked tired. No surprise there, considering their days had hardly been quick 9 to 5s lately. But something was off—besides sleep schedules.

He found his gaze lingering on DiNozzo because of his senior field agent's recent mysterious disappearances, but he covered his smile with his hand at finding his senior agent chewing on the end of his tie as he poked at buttons on his cell phone while grinning like a maniac. Gibbs wasn't exactly happy about Tony sneaking around doing side work for the director, but he of all people knew the powers of Jenny's persuasion.

Deciding DiNozzo wasn't the cause of this lingering unease, Gibbs turned his gaze to Ziva, his smile lingering too when he saw her staring off into space with a frown, no doubt searching her third—or fourth, or fifth—language for the exact word she needed for her report.

McGee was having no trouble with that, his fingers flying across the keyboard with a speed that made Gibbs wonder just how long he would be here reading the probie's no doubt lengthy report.

Gibbs glanced at the calendar to reassure himself that none of his dreaded anniversaries was coming up, and then he did his best to ignore his gut. He thought about the past few days of takeout meals and decided to call it indigestion.

He waited a few more minutes to give Ziva time to find that perfect word and McGee to get down all the facts his big brain could remember, and then Gibbs said, "McGee! Go write novels on your own time. I want all of your reports in two minutes."

There was a flash of panic in the probie's eyes before his fingers somehow started moving faster, and Ziva simply nodded.

Tony ignored him.

But Gibbs didn't mind, considering his senior field agent's report was already sitting on the corner of his desk, next to an empty pizza box and the extremely expensive pair of shoes propped there.

Gibbs had noticed that the entire team's reports had gotten shorter after his hiatus, likely a result of DiNozzo having been in charge for those few months. Gibbs wasn't dumb enough to think it was laziness on Tony's part—the shorter reports were simply more efficient. McGee still had some work to do, but Gibbs also noticed that the probie still made progress each week even though Gibbs never said a word about it.

"Time's up," Gibbs said, even though he hadn't actually been keeping track of those two minutes.

McGee stabbed a finger at the print button with the satisfied, relieved smile of a student who had just aced his SATs, but Ziva's expression was as close to panic as Gibbs had ever seen on the Mossad officer's face. Gibbs was just trying to figure out whether to give her an extension or bark at her when Tony spoke up.

"No fair, Boss," he said, smiling as he slid his feet off his desk and picked up his report. "That was only a minute thirty-nine. You know what this reminds me of?"

No one answered as DiNozzo sauntered across the room, retrieving McGee's report from the printer and dropping it on the probie's desk before delivering his own to Gibbs, talking all the while as Ziva typed madly, no longer pausing for perfection in terminology.

"The movie 'S.W.A.T.' from 2003, with Colin Farrell, Samuel L. Jackson, LL Cool J. The movie was great but there's that annoying song in there where the guy is just repeating 'Time is running OUT!' over and over again. I mean, what is that? And who was that? It was hardly a song because the guy was hardly doing any actual singing."

Tony shot a pointed look at McGee, who started typing as the senior field agent moved to look over his shoulder.

"That was Apollo 440's 'Time Is Running Out'," McGee said, drawing a theatrical sigh from Tony, who moved back to the middle of the squad room.

"Well that's not a very creative title," Tony said, but then he grinned and moved to his own desk, half-lying over it and feigning holding a sniper rifle. "But Boss, you'd love the scene where the whole SWAT team is lying on their bellies in the desert, shooting playing cards tacked to a board a million meters away."

"Sniper poker," Gibbs said.

Tony went dead still. "You've played?"

Gibbs lifted a shoulder.

Tony grinned. "Of course you have." He flicked a glance at Ziva, who was heaving a giant sigh of relief as the printer spit out her report. "Great movie. Great theme song, too. Bah na na—"

"DiNozzo," Gibbs said, cutting him off but trying not to smile. "Go home."

"On it, Boss," Tony said, heading back to his desk and tipping his head at Ziva's mouthed "thank you."

"All of you, get out of here," Gibbs said, shooing his team toward the elevator. "See you Monday."

Gibbs just happened to be looking at Tony when he said that, and he couldn't help noticing how extremely relieved his agent looked. The twisting in his gut returned, but Gibbs dismissed the expression as Tony still being in full-on drama mode—or anxious to get started on his weekend with his girlfriend. He heard Ziva ribbing Tony about that relationship as the trio of agents headed out, but DiNozzo simply brushed off the questions and deftly changed the subject.

The somewhat odd behavior from the man who usually couldn't keep his mouth shut about his various dates had Gibbs wondering if perhaps DiNozzo's weekend plans involved his work for Jenny instead of lazy days with his girlfriend. With Tony's ruse of buying time for his partner to finish her report fresh in his mind, Gibbs found himself wondering if DiNozzo had adequate backup for these side missions.

But then he just shook his head. _Jenny's a pro_, he thought. _No op is so important that she would risk an agent's life for intel. Especially not one of _my _agents. _

Gibbs pushed the thoughts out of his head and concentrated on reading the reports, noting that McGee's was again improved. It wasn't completely free of computer jargon, but Gibbs could at least understand the main points.

About an hour later, after reading the reports and finishing up his own paperwork, Gibbs switched off his desk lamp and gathered his things. He was heading out when he noticed Tony's monitor was still on, and he stopped, his finger hovering over the power button. But instead of turning it off, Gibbs wiggled the mouse, telling himself he was simply making sure DiNozzo had logged off before leaving.

Gibbs had neither the skill—nor the desire, he realized—to search the computer for evidence of his agent's secret missions. Gibbs trusted Tony, completely, and he realized that if he wanted answers, he could simply ask.

Finding the computer logged off, Gibbs hit the power switch and left, ignoring his lingering doubts that Tony would give him the truth if asked directly.

* * *

Gibbs made his way down to the parking lot, noting with surprise that Tony's car was still there. The agent's head was bowed, and Gibbs wondered if Tony was on the phone with someone—perhaps his girlfriend. But it was too dark to tell, and that, combined with the lingering unease in his gut, had Gibbs moving toward the car, wondering again if something was wrong as Tony sat unmoving behind the wheel.

Tony's migraines were the first thing to come to mind, but Gibbs dismissed that idea. He knew Tony too well —knew his symptoms and his subtle tells even when he tried to hide the pain.

There was no way Tony could hide something as major as a crippling migraine from him.

And Gibbs doubted he would try, anyway. While Tony was far from comfortable with sharing his pain with his boss, Gibbs knew his agent took his condition seriously in light of their dangerous job and would never put his teammates in jeopardy. But that didn't mean, Gibbs realized as he approached the darkened vehicle, that Tony wouldn't try to hide the symptoms at the beginning of an off-duty weekend.

Gibbs got close enough to Tony's beloved Mustang to see the glow of an open cell phone on the dash, and suddenly he froze. Tony still hadn't moved, but Gibbs was now near enough to see the tension in the hunched shoulders, the way the man was pressing his forehead to hands clenched on the steering wheel.

The posture screamed pain, but Gibbs had no idea if it was physical or otherwise—and the thought of intruding on a freshly heartbroken DiNozzo was unpleasant, to say the least. Gibbs could handle the migraines—and the pain, misery and occasional puking that came with them—but he had very little experience with an emotionally suffering Tony.

It wasn't that Gibbs didn't care about his agent's feelings. It was more that Gibbs didn't know how to express that kind of concern without embarrassing them both. Injecting a gasping Tony caught in a vice of skull-crushing agony and keeping a hand on him until the shuddering subsided was one thing; having a lucid conversation about his imploded relationship with the mysterious new love of his life was another entirely.

So Gibbs stood frozen for a moment, trying to remember if Tony had ever mentioned the girl's name—or an occupation, hair color, or hell, even a cup size.

And then he kicked himself, knowing that whatever kind of pain Tony was in, Gibbs couldn't just walk away and let him suffer alone. They were partners, and partners always had each other's backs— whether it was an op or a dinner order, they looked out for each other.

Gibbs reached up and tapped on the driver's side window, not entirely surprised when Tony flinched away from the sound. But he was unable to tell if that reaction had been pain or simply being startled.

The window rolled down an inch, but Tony did not look up.

Gibbs swallowed the sudden, irrational fear that it was to hide tears and he decided to ask an honest question, rather than guess any longer.

"You okay, Tony?"

The slight negative shake of Tony's head and the sharp intake of breath that came with it answered most of his questions, and Gibbs felt a rush of shame at feeling momentarily relieved it was a migraine afflicting his agent and not heartache.

He reached down and tried to open the door, but he was surprised to find it locked. The unsettled feeling that had been lurking in his gut all day sprang up again, and he wondered why Tony would lock himself in, especially in the midst of a raging migraine.

A trembling hand groped at the manual lock on the classic car, and Gibbs noted that Tony didn't even bother to raise his head as he unlocked the door.

Gibbs pulled the door open and leaned inside, speaking softly into Tony's ear. "Inject yourself yet?"

Tony nodded with a sharp gasp of pain, but Gibbs didn't see any syringes. "When?"

Tony flinched at the whisper-quiet question, and Gibbs winced with him and put a gentle hand on his agent's knee as he crouched beside the car. Tony flinched away from the touch, too, and Gibbs frowned hard, wondering again why his gut felt so twisted.

"Not long," Tony answered, his voice so ragged that Gibbs almost missed the emotion underlying the pain.

But he didn't miss it.

It was fear.

Gibbs had seen Tony react in a lot of ways to the migraines—pain, frustration, embarrassment. But never with fear. He wondered how intense the agony had to be to scare him, and then he shuddered at the thought.

Gibbs shoved down his own fearful reaction to that and put his hand on Tony's arm, forcing his tone into a steadiness he didn't feel. "Hospital?"

There was no response, but Gibbs knew Tony well enough to know that the lack of an immediate protest was as close to a yes as he would ever get.

"Slide over," Gibbs said, barely breathing the gentle order as he pushed lightly against Tony's arm to get him to move into the passenger seat.

Gibbs heard Tony's breathing turn to gasps as he started to move, but he sensed from his agent's squeezed-shut eyes and turned head that he might prefer to make the painful slide without an audience. So Gibbs walked back to his own car and grabbed his overnight bag, reasoning that it would be nice to have more comfortable clothes if he was going to be at the hospital all night—or longer, depending on what was going on inside Tony's head.

He shut the trunk gently despite the distance between the cars. He knew the migraines made Tony miserable as he suffered through "normal" ones, and he didn't even want to think about how brutal the pain had to be for Tony to agree to an ER visit.

He felt another flash of unease as he walked back through the deserted lot, thinking again that they had been dealing with the condition long enough that Tony only rarely hesitated to speak up when he needed to, but Gibbs got little satisfaction from that. He knew Tony would likely continue to hide the pain if their jobs didn't demand full and immediate disclosure and that Tony hid the symptoms only when he was damned sure he wasn't going to put anyone in danger doing it.

_Maybe he thought he could make it home?_ Gibbs wondered, sliding into Tony's car and flicking a glance at his silent agent. _Why wouldn't you just say something? You don't have to hide from me. _

"Gibbs?"

Preparing to squash a possible protest to the hospital trip, Gibbs gathered the patience he needed during these episodes and simply said, "Yeah?"

Tony's tense body slumped against the door and he waved his hand a little before raising it to his temple, apparently deciding against whatever he was going to say. Or perhaps he was just unable to get the words out.

Gibbs ignored the increased twisting in his gut, and he started the car, stifling the questions he wanted to ask because he knew the doctors would be repeating them soon enough. The way Tony was shaking, Gibbs didn't want to do anything but get him to a hospital where those doctors could put an end to his suffering.

Tony shifted suddenly, his eyes going to the window before he dropped his head back into his hands, his shaking finding a way to get even worse. "Where…?" he asked, a hiss of pain cutting off the question.

"University," Gibbs answered, flicking a concerned glance at his passenger. "Closest," he said, employing his usual economy of words. It was an especially useful trait now, considering the way Tony flinched at each word, no matter how soft.

"No," Tony said, still not looking up. He was obviously trying to put some force behind the protest but it came out more like a gasp.

And Gibbs realized he had been right when he told Ziva there was more than one reason for Tony to be calling the hospital and wearing that bracelet.

"Your girl work there?" he asked quietly.

Tony was silent a moment, but Gibbs couldn't tell if he was avoiding an answer or simply trying to breathe through the pain.

Finally, he whispered, "I don't want her to see…"

"Okay," Gibbs said, not bothering to state the obvious fact that the girl would find out sooner or later if Tony planned on being with her long-term. His agent needed his support right now, and Gibbs was honored that his guarded, stubborn friend was willing to accept it.

He glanced to the right to see if Tony had a preference of Bethesda or Washington Hospital Center, but Gibbs saw that he had one hand pressed to his stomach and the other to his mouth.

"Need me to pull over?" he asked, growing more concerned by the second. He had seen Tony puke more times than he liked to think about, but he had never seen the man quite this pale. His face was absolutely bloodless, the hand over his mouth visibly shaking.

Tony groaned something that might have been a yes, and Gibbs pulled the car to the side of the road, wincing at the sound of retching that immediately followed the opening of the door. Not liking the gasps that punctuated the heaving, Gibbs got out and rounded the car, crouching on creaking knees to get a better look at Tony's face.

He put a comforting hand on Tony's neck, not bothering to be surreptitious about taking his pulse while doing it. He counted the rapid beats and kept his focus on Tony's clamped-shut eyes, his heart aching for his friend's suffering.

The puking stopped and Gibbs scooted closer, putting a calloused hand on Tony's cheek. "Can you open your eyes?" he asked, not entirely sure why he felt like he needed to. He just did. "Just for a second?"

There was a flash of green, but Tony clamped his eyes shut again before he even had time to focus on anything. "Not dying," he whispered.

Gibbs wasn't convinced—because Tony hadn't sounded all that convincing.

Gibbs stood, anxious to get his patient to the hospital—WHC, he decided, simply because it was much closer than Bethesda. He got back into the driver's seat of Tony's Mustang, wishing he could enjoy driving the muscle car instead of worrying about whatever was going on in its owner's head. He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it, wishing too that he had water to hand over. He held it out, realizing after a moment that Tony wasn't looking at him.

"Here," he said softly, watching Tony flinch and reach out blindly, his eyes still shut against the semi-darkness in the car. Gibbs took Tony gently by the wrist and pressed the cloth against his fingers. He frowned again when Tony jumped slightly at the touch—it had been a long time since Tony had flinched away from contact this much, and it made Gibbs remember the uneasy feeling he'd been having all night.

It also made him think briefly about heading straight to University. Maybe Tony's girl's touch would soothe him in a way Gibbs' definitely wasn't, for once.

But he couldn't do that to Tony. Not to mention Tony would probably bolt as soon as he pulled up to the ER.

So Gibbs just grabbed his ever-present coffee from the console and offered it, this time speaking before touching.

"Coffee?"

Tony grimaced and turned his face back to the window. "I think my regurgitated dinner still tastes better than your coffee, Boss. But thanks."

The words were strained and halting, but Gibbs was glad for them, glad for the humor that eased his uncharacteristic nervousness. Not that he blamed himself for being worried about Tony—his agent sounded just as nervous as Gibbs felt.

The Friday evening traffic was knotted as usual, and made worse by an accident on the road ahead. Gibbs sighed at the flashing lights, knowing every minute's delay was torture for his suffering friend.

"Boss?" Tony said, questions in his tone.

"Traffic," Gibbs responded, noting that Tony had once again buried his face in his hands.

Tony gave a one-sided shrug, not bothering to open his eyes to survey the tangled mess. "It's DC," he said softly.

Gibbs nodded even though Tony couldn't see it, and he just drove, trying to be patient as he navigated the tightly packed cars because leaning on the horn was out of the question. In an effort to distract himself from his passenger's huddled, miserable form, he found himself thinking again about DiNozzo's side missions. It wasn't that he was particularly angry with Tony for the secretiveness; he was just really surprised that his agent hadn't filled him in.

Gibbs didn't need details. He wanted them, of course, out of both curiosity and a strong feeling that his agents were _his_—his responsibility, his to protect. And Gibbs could understand the dilemma if Jenny had ordered Tony to keep his mouth shut. Just because he disobeyed his former partner—and lover—didn't mean DiNozzo could so easily go against the wishes of the director.

But still.

Gibbs didn't expect Tony to tell him everything—though the talkative agent usually spilled every last detail anyway—but he had to admit he was disappointed that Tony hadn't given him at least a discreet, or vague, indication of just what the hell he was sneaking around doing. Whatever it was had to be rather time consuming, considering the way Tony had been disappearing lately—and dragging himself into work looking so thoroughly exhausted.

But, Gibbs realized with a slight smile, the new girlfriend might account for at least some of those sleepless nights.

Gibbs spotted the hospital and noted that the greasy fingers of unease were back, poking at him with a renewed vigor. He pulled up to the emergency entrance, wondering again how close Tony was to this new girl. He found himself wishing she was close enough that Tony could drop his guard with her and let her help him through this—whatever _this_ was. If it was bad enough to scare him into a hospital visit, Gibbs figured it might be good to have someone that Tony was comfortable with nearby. Not that Gibbs and Tony didn't manage, but Gibbs knew Tony accepted his help more out of necessity than anything and that he was often embarrassed by his condition.

Realizing he had been just sitting there thinking, Gibbs glanced at Tony, who hadn't moved. He turned off the car with a frown, getting out and opening the passenger-side door.

Tony swung his legs onto the pavement and promptly buried his face in his hands with a low groan. He pulled in several slow, shaky breaths before looking up, his fear written plainly on his face.

Gibbs held out a hand, schooling his expression into a neutral one but wondering if he should just admit that he was worried as hell.

Tony didn't react to the offered hand, but he didn't try to stand on his own, either. He just sat there, eyes focused somewhere behind Gibbs.

"Take my hand," Gibbs said, giving the order gently as he stepped closer, his gut inexplicably roiling again.

Tony frowned and raised a shaking hand.

And Gibbs suddenly knew exactly why Tony looked so terrified.

He had reached out about a foot too far to the right.

"You can't see anything at all, can you?" Gibbs asked softly, waving his hand slowly in front of unblinking green eyes.

Tony flinched, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes moved in the general direction of Gibbs' voice.

Because he was expecting a protest, Gibbs felt something twist hard inside him when Tony whispered, "It's all just black."

Gibbs drew a deep, steadying breath before he moved closer, slowly, and put out a tentative hand, letting Tony sense him before he touched him.

"Come on," he said, sliding his hand under Tony's arm. "Let's get you inside."

Tony stood shakily, his left hand batting at the cool night air as he tried to find the door to close it.

"I got it," Gibbs said, catching the flailing wrist and pulling him away from the car.

Unfortunately, he forgot to warn Tony about the curb and ended up with an armful of DiNozzo as he stumbled forward.

"Hell," Tony said, pausing for a moment with his face buried against Gibbs' shoulder before pulling back. "Are people staring?"

Gibbs could read the embarrassment on Tony's face as his eyes flicked around in futility, so he joked, "Nah. But the security guards inside probably think you're drunk."

Gibbs wasn't really surprised by the nervous bubble of laughter followed by soft words.

"I'm pretty sure you can't actually drink yourself blind."

Catching Tony's wince at that last word, Gibbs moved to his side and took him by the elbow. "Doors are about twenty feet straight ahead. No more steps," he said quietly, trying to ignore the tension in the quivering muscles in his agent's arm. He knew Tony was scared—hell, Gibbs was scared for him—but he also knew they would get through this, somehow.

Tony started forward, his steps slow and uncertain.

Gibbs noted that he held his left hand slightly out in front of him, and he said, "I'd never let you walk off a cliff, DiNozzo."

Tony flinched hard, his sightless eyes going pained. "I trust you, Gibbs," he said quietly. He turned his head away and whispered, "I'd be crazy not to."

Gibbs wasn't sure what to make of that—the words or the oddly guilty expression—but they had reached the counter so he just focused on the nurse, flashing his badge out of habit.

"I'm Special Agent—"

"Oh hells no, federali!"

Gibbs turned to see a scared young Hispanic man pointing a gun in his face.

_Perfect_, he thought, flicking a glance at Tony, who was standing completely still, his entire body tense even though there was no way he could see the weapon. But DiNozzo had a cop's instincts, and Gibbs had no doubt he had read the desperation in the kid's voice.

"Put the gun down," Gibbs said calmly, shaking his head slightly at the security guards who approached from near the entrance. Everyone else in the ER had frozen at the sight of the gun, but still Gibbs said, "Nobody move. No one's going to get hurt here."

"How did you know I was here?" the man asked, the revolver shaking almost as hard as his voice.

Gibbs raised his hands slowly. "I didn't. I'm not here for you."

The kid's eyes went wide and he took a step away from the counter, swinging the gun toward Tony. "Then what are you doing here?"

"I get migraines," Tony said slowly.

"For reals, ese? You come to a hospital for a headache?" the kid asked, his tone both mocking and disbelieving.

Gibbs wanted to hit him.

For several reasons.

But Tony just said, "Yeah. When that headache came with a side of blindness."

The young man squinted, searching Tony's eyes, which were focused about a foot above the shorter man's head—and also above the revolver still pointed at him.

"So you can't see nothin'?" he asked, warily.

"Not a thing," Tony confirmed, wincing a little at the pain of simply speaking.

His hands were shaking, too, but Gibbs doubted it was fear. He wasn't sure if DiNozzo knew the gun was still aimed at him, but he trusted his agent's instincts enough to believe that Tony knew they were all in danger. Gibbs watched the kid's eyes flick back and forth between the two agents, and Gibbs took a step forward, hoping he would point that gun at him instead of Tony.

But the weapon stayed leveled at Tony's head as the young man yelled, "Don't move, federali. I'll shoot him. I will."

Gibbs believed him.

He held his hands up, his body going tense as he realized the kid meant sooner rather than later. Gibbs watched in horror as the kid's thumb jerked the hammer back and he realized he was too far away to do anything about it. He leapt forward in futility, his heart hammering so hard he could feel his pulse pounding in his neck. Pain ripped through him as he realized he was about to watch another of his agents die right in front of him.

Gibbs wanted to look away, to spare himself the sight of that round going through Tony's head, his bright-red blood spilling from the wound just as Kate's had on that rooftop. But he was glad he didn't.

The kid's finger started to squeeze the trigger—just as Tony's hands shot out, grabbing the gun and forcing the barrel toward the ceiling just as it went off with a massive report that drew shrieks throughout the ER. The round hit the ceiling just as Gibbs hit the kid and Tony collapsed against the counter and sank to the floor.

Gibbs could see Tony's unfocused eyes darting around, his hands groping outward in an attempt to grab either the gun or the dirtbag.

Gibbs easily disarmed the kid and called "Clear!" to let his agent know the scene was secure and safe.

"Oh. Good," Tony breathed. And then he slumped back against the counter, sliding down until he was curled on his side on the tile floor, his face buried in his sleeves.

Gibbs handed over the now silent, subdued kid to hospital security, waiting until the burly guards had snapped on the cuffs to move to Tony's side. Gibbs was glad Tony had been able to hear him after having a gun go off so close to his head; he knew serious hearing loss could have occurred and he was extremely grateful that didn't seem to be the case.

"Hey!"

Gibbs looked up to see the kid had come alive again, struggling against the guards but unable to escape. Still, he shouted, "I thought you said you couldn't see, federali?"

Tony raised his head in the direction of the voice and he shrugged. "I can't. But I could still hear you cock that big-ass gun, dirtbag."

Gibbs' smile was short-lived as Tony slumped back down, his low groan pure misery. Gibbs took his hands, examining the minor powder burns on his left palm from where he had grabbed the revolver.

"You okay?" Gibbs asked, gently prodding the wounds.

"Yeah," Tony said. "Feels like sunburn."

Gibbs nodded, remembering an experience like this of his own. "And the rest of you?"

"No worse than when we got here," he answered, his eyes still clamped shut. "Ears are ringing a little, but my hearing's fine."

Gibbs gave his agent's shoulder a quick squeeze, shoving away images of the gun pointed at Tony's face.

A doctor appeared then, and together he and Gibbs helped Tony to his feet.

"I'm Dr. Phillips. So what brings you in tonight?" the doctor said, glancing with a nervous smile at the young man being escorted from the ER. "I gather it wasn't to get shot at?"

"Migraine," Gibbs answered, feeling Tony sagging against his side, what little strength he had left suddenly fading. "Blindness in both eyes."

The doctor nodded and held his questions until Tony was seated on a gurney in an exam room. After a quick physical examination, Phillips produced a gown and placed it in Tony's hand, making sure to speak his intentions before touching him.

Tony frowned as his fingers slid over the flimsy material. "Is, uh, this necessary?"

"I'm going to send you for an MRI," Phillips answered.

"But I've, um, had retinal migraines with, uh, temporary blindness before," Tony protested, suddenly eyeing the door even though Gibbs was certain he couldn't see it.

"That temporary blindness with retinal migraines is always monocular," the doctor explained patiently. "Always just in one eye, right?"

Tony nodded, wincing and putting a hand out to steady himself even though he was still sitting.

"Vertigo?" Phillips asked.

"Yeah," Tony said quietly. "Started even before the lights, um, went out."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow at Tony's odd stammering, and he wasn't surprised by Phillips' next question.

"Are you having trouble speaking, Agent DiNozzo?"

"It's, uh, Tony," he said, frowning hard and looking toward the floor in embarrassment. "And yeah. Um, the words… I can't, uh…"

"It's called dysarthria," Phillips said calmly. "A clumsiness with words or language. Are you having any other symptoms?"

"My face. It, uh, feels … tingly."

"On both sides," Phillips asked.

"Yeah."

"But you don't have any weakness? No loss of motor function?"

Tony shook his head, swallowing hard at either the pain or nausea the movement brought.

"Obviously," Phillips agreed with a slight smile. "Considering how you shoved that gun out of your face."

Tony shrugged, brushing off an action that both Gibbs and the doctor knew had taken more than good motor function.

"It sounds like it could be Bickerstaff syndrome—"

"Wait," Gibbs interrupted, feeling his pulse suddenly pounding. "This isn't related to his migraines?"

The same fear was obvious on Tony's face, but he didn't say a word.

"Oh, it almost certainly is," Phillips reassured. "Bickerstaff is also known as a basilar-type migraine, or BTM, which is basically a migraine with an aura where the aura is localized in the brainstem. I just want to get the MRI to rule out things like bleeding or lesions in the brain and stroke. I'd also like to get an EEG to rule out seizure disorders."

"I've never, uh, had seizures, um, before," Tony said, the words coming haltingly.

"That's good," Phillips said. "Put the gown on, Tony, and we'll run some tests. If everything checks out and the blindness resolves itself, we'll have you out of here in no time."

Gibbs was surprised when Tony didn't question the "if" part of that statement, but Phillips' pointed look stopped him from asking about it. The doctor also nodded to the hallway.

"I'll be right outside while you put that on," Gibbs said, knowing Tony would rather struggle than be helped out of his clothes and into the gown. A part of him wanted to stay, or to offer the help anyway, but he just squeezed Tony's shoulder and followed the doctor out of the exam room.

"If this is Bickerstaff—and the diagnosis can't be confirmed without two attacks—then keeping him calm and relaxed is very important," Phillips said. "High stress means elevated blood pressure and that will just make the symptoms worse for him."

Gibbs nodded, wondering how he was supposed to keep Tony calm when he was still seriously unnerved by the doctor's casual mention of problems in the brainstem. Gibbs wasn't Ducky—but he knew damn well how vital the brainstem was.

"You have questions?" Phillips asked, making Gibbs grateful this doctor was the one helping DiNozzo.

Gibbs paused, trying to phrase those questions and suddenly understanding Tony's frustration at not being able to find the words. "You said brainstem. So this is serious?"

Phillips thought for a moment. "BTM are generally terrifying because of the blindness, but to be quite honest, the symptoms, while scary, aren't often harmful. The brainstem involvement is why he's having the neurological symptoms—the vertigo, trouble speaking and the tingling in the face. Those are just three of several possible symptoms, including hearing problems, double vision, decreased level of consciousness. He's had retinal migraines—this is just a different kind of migraine. He seems to be tolerating the pain quite well."

Gibbs nodded, realizing how true that last statement was. "He does seem to be doing better than with some of his other migraines."

"That's because he was able to self-inject," Phillips said. "The medication is helping with the pain, but it can be very tricky to treat the other symptoms of BTM. Often they simply resolve themselves with time and rest."

"So the blindness really is temporary?" Gibbs asked, finding himself holding his breath for the answer.

"Oh, yes. But it can last up to 72 hours in severe cases, which is part of the reason why Bickerstaff, or BTM, can be so scary, especially during a first attack."

Gibbs nodded, suddenly eyeing the doctor. "Is this common? I've read some about migraines but I've heard of this."

Phillips smiled. "I just got back from a migraine seminar. If you'd come in two days ago, I wouldn't have known any of this either. It's not common, but really, we'll run some tests to be sure, but I'm confident that your friend is going to be fine."

Gibbs tried to smile, feeling somewhat reassured by the doctor's words—and even more so by the fact that Tony wasn't writhing in agony during all this.

"May I come in?" Phillips asked, knocking lightly on the door.

"Yeah," came Tony's voice.

Gibbs entered to find Tony sitting on the gurney in the gown, his clothes folded relatively neatly beside him. He saw the hand Tony had pressed to his belly at the same time the doctor did.

"Do you want something for the nausea?"

Tony nodded slowly, his eyes focused downward again.

"I'll give orders to a nurse on my way to get you in for that MRI," Phillips said, heading for the door. "Try to relax."

Another nod was followed by Tony's soft voice. "Gibbs?"

Gibbs realized his agent couldn't tell where he was—or if he was even in the room—so he said, "I'm over here, Tony." He watched Tony's eyes flicking around in his general direction, and Gibbs moved closer, again speaking before touching. "I'm right here."

Tony didn't flinch this time at the gentle hand on his shoulder, but his eyes dropped back down to his lap. "You don't, uh, have to stay."

Gibbs refrained from the headslap and just said affectionately, "Shut up, DiNozzo."


	18. Chapter 17B

**A/N: **After taking a bit of a hiatus from fanfic writing, I'm happy to say that I'm back. While working on my original novel has been all kinds of challenging and fun, I've missed the community feeling that fanfic fosters. I'm sorry I've been away for so long! I'm also sorry to say that this "Dark" chapter still isn't finished, but I wanted to post this 17B installment now. I posted the first part (Chapter 17) in hopes that it would light a fire under me to finish the chapter, but real life hasn't been cooperating and the novel grabbed my attention and refused to let go. I can, however, promise that the final installment will not take months for me to post! To anyone still interested in "Of Ghosts and Gremlins," I have an epilogue nearly finished and will post that shortly. I'm also working on some other projects (writing random fanfic is *immensely* helpful in dealing with writer's block on the novel), including a Tony/EJ short, notes for a preseries "how Tony met Gibbs" type story, and some others. Anyway, back to fic!

* * *

After the painless and relatively quick EEG, Tony lay inside the tube of the MRI machine, grateful for both the earplugs that dulled the clicks and bangs of the scanner and for the anti-emetic the nurse had given him before the first test. It was bad enough that he had to rely on someone to keep him from walking into walls; he didn't even want to think about the embarrassment of throwing up all over himself.

His thoughts, unsurprisingly, were on Jeanne, her pretty face taking center stage in his head. He welcomed the images that invaded the terrifying, ever-more-oppressive blackness even though they reminded him of the truth he barely dared to admit to himself: He was in far too deep.

The feelings of nervousness and paranoia he had felt at first when he was with his mark had faded—much too quickly, he knew—as he had gotten to know Jeanne. But that unease had returned, with a vengeance, it seemed, considering how he often felt like someone was watching him when he was with her. Some days lately he was so paranoid he could practically hear the shutters of a camera documenting their every kiss.

And the worst part was that while those shutters likely weren't real, those kisses absolutely were.

He was head-over-heels in love.

It was almost as terrifying as the blindness.

It was also unsettling to realize he had good reason to be paranoid. Jeanne was beautiful, funny, kind, smart … but also the daughter of an international arms dealer. Gibbs would headslap him straight into concussion-ville for the number of times he had forgotten that lately.

Tony put the brakes on the guilt that threatened to choke him at the thought of his multiple lies to his boss. He just couldn't think about it—especially with the man waiting down the hall, no doubt worried sick about him. Tony was unaccustomed to people actually giving a shit about him. But the concern in Gibbs' voice when he'd questioned the doctor earlier was unmistakable.

It was almost as terrifying as the blindness.

So Tony turned his thoughts from Gibbs' kindness during this difficult experience, from his fears about Gibbs finding out his lies, and he tried to picture Jeanne again.

He almost wanted her here.

Almost.

But as much as he craved the comfort of her calming touch, he was terrified of slipping up because he was too weak to keep his cover intact—to keep his lies straight.

"Can you hold still please?" came a voice over the intercom. "I know you're in a lot of pain, but you need to lie still."

Tony's eyes snapped open reflexively at the sound, but he saw nothing but the god-awful blackness. He murmured an apology and clamped his eyes shut again. At least with them closed, he could pretend nothing was wrong with his vision, that this was some nightmare he would wake up from and laugh at.

The panic that this might be permanent crept up again and he swallowed hard, a shudder rattling through his chilled body beneath the thin hospital gown.

_So if this is permanent, what the hell do I do?_ he wondered, forcing himself to lie still when all he wanted was to bury his face in his hands. _I'm a federal agent. It's not what I do—it's who I am. _

Tony couldn't imagine himself doing anything else. Sure, he loved the gun and the badge—and the power and authority that came with—but he was not just the shallow goofball his co-workers thought he was. In the end, he just wanted his life to matter. On his darker days, he would think about dying in the line of duty—and not care, as long as he went down fighting for something that mattered.

He realized with a start that his thoughts lately had been more smiling brides and sandy-haired kids than the flowers on his early grave. The bride's face was always Jeanne's. But the dress was always the flowing white one Wendy had been wearing on the day she had shattered his heart. He figured it was his subconscious's way of reminding him that a future with Jeanne was never going to happen.

But still he pictured it.

It was like imagining driving a car you knew you'd never be able to afford.

Except that it wasn't like that at all. You could take a car out on a test drive with no intentions of buying it without hurting anyone. Jeanne was a living, breathing human with thoughts and feelings, and hopes and dreams for the future.

A future that included Tony DiNardo.

Tony DiNozzo suddenly forgot where he was as the guilt-induced nausea punched him in the gut. He sat up, smacking his head on the hard plastic of the inside of the MRI tube, and panic flooded through him as he tried to bring his hands up, his movements constricted by the confined space. The narrow table shifted under him as the tech obviously noticed his distress, and that was all it took to push him from queasy to puking.

He managed to turn slightly sideways but still ended up vomiting on the gown covering his shaking body. He could feel the warm wetness on the fabric as it stuck to his skin, and it only made him want to throw up more.

But the urgent need to _move_, to get out of the claustrophobic space, had him swallowing the last of the vomit and struggling to sit up again.

"Hold still," a male voice said firmly, just before hands clamped around his upper arms and pinned him to the cold table.

Tony's first instinct was to fight the grip the man had on him, but he remembered from another experience with another MRI just how narrow the table he was lying on was. The man was simply trying to keep him from falling off.

"I'm sorry," Tony whispered, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks as he realized what he must look like, panicked and puked-covered and fighting someone who was just trying to help. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," the female tech said kindly, her voice coming closer as Tony stopped struggling. He was almost glad he couldn't see her face as she touched his shoulder gently before wiping at the puke on his gown. "We'll get you a new gown and a stronger anti-emetic. There's nothing to be sorry for. It's not your fault you've got a wicked migraine."

_No, but it is my fault that I'm going to ruin an innocent woman's life,_ Tony thought. But he kept his mouth shut. There were times when he almost hoped Jeanne knew every last detail about her father's crimes, but he couldn't really believe it—not knowing the woman as well as he did. _So why are you still putting on this charade?_ his guilty mind demanded.

_Because Jenny ordered me to_, he answered himself, realizing that doing so should probably be cause for worry. _Because she strongly believes Jeanne is the key to her father—for some reason that I don't know. She certainly hadn't been in the mood to share after I told her the op was stalling out. And then I agreed to keep after it because the way she was staring at me like she was disappointed had me thinking about Gibbs—for some reason that I don't _want_ to know. _

"Is it all right if I remove your gown?" the tech asked after she had finished cleaning up most of the mess.

"Uh," Tony said, feeling embarrassing heat flood his cheeks. The woman's voice sounded very young, but without being able to see her, he had no idea how old she was. Or how she was looking at him.

"I'll be outside," the male voice said, giving Tony a pat on the arm.

But the agent was so focused on his embarrassment over not knowing whether he would normally be flirting with this woman—or if she was old enough to be his grandmother—that the touch startled him and an equally mortifying gasp slipped out before he could stop it.

"I'm sorry," the man quickly apologized. "I didn't hurt you when I grabbed you, did I?"

"No," Tony answered, eyes downcast. "You just, uh, surprised me," he finished quietly, wondering if it really was possible to die of embarrassment.

"I'll be outside," the man said, his voice already drifting toward the door. There was a soft squeak of a shoe on the tile floor, and then he said, "I hope you feel better soon."

"Thank you," Tony said, squeezing the words through the tightness in his throat brought on by this stranger's kindness and sincerity.

He didn't deserve it.

He turned back to where he thought the tech was and tried to smile, but he knew he wasn't quite pulling it off.

"Here," she said, taking his wrist gently and putting a fresh gown in his hand.

"I…" He stopped, realizing there was no way to drape it across his lap without knowing if he was dipping it in puke.

"You don't have anything I haven't seen before," she said, a smile in her voice.

Tony was suddenly reminded of the first time he had gotten naked with Jeanne—and his uncharacteristic shyness that night, too. He still wasn't sure why he had felt so exposed, in so many senses of the word, but it had helped when she had teasingly reminded him she was a doctor and had seen it all before.

With the memory of that night in mind, Tony bravely slid his arms out of the wet gown and handed it over, quickly covering himself with the new one. The whole process was quick and easy, but he had felt the chilled air brush over his most private places and he knew he was blushing like mad.

The tech didn't say anything and just helped him stand, her sure hands tugging the gown into place and tying it securely around him.

"There you go," she said brightly, easing him back onto the table. "Think you'll be okay for another five minutes in there? We're almost done."

"I'll be okay," Tony said, sliding back down onto the cold table.

"How's your head?" she asked.

"It was, um, better before I tried to sit up inside the rabbit hole."

"Ouch," the tech agreed. "Try to lie still and we'll be done in no time."

Tony nodded, frowning when he realized the pain was slowly getting bad again. He forced himself to stay still, though, wanting the MRI over and done with so he could go somewhere private and scream in peace.

And it wasn't the pain.

Oddly, even though the blindness and trouble with words were scaring the hell out of him, he knew this wasn't his worst migraine, pain-wise. His head definitely hurt and it was bad enough that he would do pretty much anything to make it stop, but he wasn't screaming in agony and he felt much better when he was lying flat and still.

Well, his head felt better that way.

His heart was still throbbing with guilt and indecision.

He wondered why he didn't just go to Jenny, tell her _again_ that Jeanne was completely innocent and uninvolved, and demand an end to the mission—this part of it, anyway. There had to be better ways to get the Frog. He didn't spend much time wondering why this arms dealer in particular was such a huge blip on the director's radar because he had already spent several wasted nights tossing and turning over that question. Jenny's words and actions smacked of a personal obsession—he was quite reminded of Gibbs when his boss had been after Ari—but Tony couldn't imagine her risking her career over some baseless vendetta.

And when he had asked her about the agency's beef with the Frog, Jenny had simply said it was "need to know"—and he didn't. Tony kept hoping with every negative report on Jeanne that the director would finally give up and end the assignment herself. But she never did. She simply told him to stick with it, to try to dig deeper. He felt horrible going through Jeanne's things while she slept, or showered, or ran out for coffee. And he felt worse knowing that he'd started going through her emails only after her crazy ex kept popping up so suddenly and so often.

Oh yeah, he was in _way _too deep.

"All done."

The tech's voice was suddenly just outside the MRI machine, and Tony realized he hadn't even noticed when the clicks and bangs of the test had ceased.

Way, _way_ too deep.

But he just waited while the table slid back, and tried again to give the tech a smile. "That was quick."

"Yep," she said, her voice right beside him as he sat up. "Shall we?"

Tony nodded and reached out a hand, grateful that she didn't just touch him without asking or warning him. Most people would think Tony craved physical contact, and while that was sometimes true, the blindness was making him wary, uncomfortable at even the slightest unexpected touch.

She took his hand and helped him up, and he could feel her closeness even though she wasn't touching anything but his hand. His arm brushed the scrubs she was wearing, and he couldn't help smiling a little as it reminded him of Jeanne.

He didn't even protest the wheelchair ride back to the exam room, glad he could be free to think about Jeanne's pretty face and quick wit without having to worry about tripping over unseen obstacles on the way back.

_So if this is permanent, maybe I could be with her?_ he mused as the tech pushed him from the cold room. _I'll tell her mobsters are after me. We'll change our names and run away. Leave DiNozzo and DiNardo behind—and try to be the best of both of them. _

Tony smiled, realizing he already had a new profession—kinda. He certainly had the knowledge to be a film professor. And maybe he could stop worrying all the time that Jeanne would insist on seeing where he worked or meeting some of his colleagues. It was easy enough saying he lived outside the Beltway and it was just more convenient for them to hang out—and now sleep—at her apartment, which was so close to both the hospital and the university where he supposedly worked. But sooner or later, she would insist on seeing his place, on meeting his friends, on doing all those normal things people did when they started to get serious.

But when Tony had suggested to Jenny that they set up a fake apartment and perhaps send Ziva and McGee with him on one of his "dates," the director had shot him down immediately. The fewer people who knew about an undercover assignment, the better, she had reasoned, but Tony had a feeling she simply didn't trust his teammates to not spill to Gibbs. It made him wonder both why _he_ wasn't spilling to Gibbs and why Jenny trusted him not to. He was pretty sure the answer was the same to both questions: Gibbs left. And even though the boss was back now and all the pieces had fallen back into place so effortlessly, Tony felt the change. He trusted Gibbs—with his life, as he had for a long time now—but something was different. Something was off.

_Could you really just walk away?_

The question interrupted his thoughts as surely as if someone else had spoken it aloud.

But he had no answer for himself.

Walking away—well, it would be more like running, because he didn't think he could face the questions and the goodbyes—would mean leaving. And it would not be just a job and an office and a desk, but people, too.

Abby.

Ducky.

Gibbs.

Hell, he would even miss Ziva and Tim, even though they had treated him mostly like dirt while Gibbs had been … away.

But still he would miss them.

But he had walked away before. Several times. Run away, even, after that debacle in Philly.

And while those escapes had been both relieving and painful, he had survived.

And he had never had someone to run away _with_.

"Here we are," the tech said, presumably wheeling him back into his room. "Your doctor will be in with your results as soon as possible, and I'll send a nurse in with something stronger for the nausea."

"Thank you," Tony said, looking around the room in futility.

He wondered if Gibbs was still there.

And if it was a good idea to _want_ Gibbs here during this.

He certainly didn't want to be alone, but he realized he should be just as worried about being this vulnerable around Gibbs as he was about being with Jeanne when the pain and fear were making him feel so weak.

What if he slipped?

What if Gibbs found out what was really going on with Jeanne?

What if he spilled the whole damned mission—his worries about Jenny's motives included—to his boss?

What if he voiced his fears about his lack of backup on these missions—and the fact that he often paraded around the District in his painfully obvious NCIS hat and jacket?

And why did spilling his guts suddenly seem like such a not-so-bad idea?

* * *

Gibbs watched Tony's eyes dart around the exam room as he was wheeled back in, and he stood when they failed to even pause on his face. He knew Tony had not regained his sight—_not yet_, he mentally amended—so he made sure to set aside the newspaper he hadn't been able to focus on with a distinct rustle.

Relief flooded through the unseeing eyes, and Gibbs was proud when Tony joked, "Guess I do have a brain in my head—and now I have the MRI to prove it."

"Never doubted you had one, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, keeping his tone casual as the tech helped his agent back into bed. "Just don't wanna know what's in it."

"I'd guess movie quotes," the tech said, recalling their conversation as she'd wheeled him out of the room earlier. Her pretty face scrunched up a little as she asked Tony, "But just why, exactly, do you know so many lines from 'Beaches'?"

Tony's head snapped toward the sound of the woman's voice, and Gibbs could have sworn his agent looked almost guilty.

But then Tony just turned away and mumbled something about a girlfriend.

"Lucky girl," the tech said, unfazed by her patient's momentary odd behavior as she hooked up a heart monitor and slipped a pulse-ox clip onto his finger, warning him before each touch. She flashed a smile when finished and headed for the door. "I'll go find your doctor now."

Once she was gone, Gibbs looked over at Tony, noting that his face was paler than before. "You get her number?"

Tony flinched, but Gibbs had the odd feeling that it wasn't because of the pain. Realization dawned and it made him rethink much of what he knew about DiNozzo.

"Never mind," he said casually, feeling a little guilty for studying Tony's reaction. "I keep forgetting you're spoken for."

Tony flinched again, but his hands came up so quickly and his murmured "shit" was so laced with pain that Gibbs felt doubly guilty for trying to use his condition to get more info about his new girl. He didn't have time to wonder if DiNozzo in a serious relationship was just that strange because Tony was moaning then, his face a mask of torture as he writhed as if trying to buck off the agony.

Tony suddenly turned over, rolling onto his belly and leaning over the side of the bed, gagging and spitting a thin stream of bile onto the floor. He coughed once and then dropped his head to the hard mattress on the gurney, collapsing in exhaustion.

"Easy. Just breathe," Gibbs whispered, nearly giving a gasp of his own as Tony's hand clamped around his. He ignored the discomfort in his fingers and laid a gentle hand on Tony's ribs, feeling for the respirations he couldn't see because his agent was curled almost on his belly, face buried in the crook of his arm. He felt no movement in the flesh and bone beneath his own quivering hand. "Take a breath, Tony."

DiNozzo sucked in a pained gasp and let it out with halting, panicked words. "Gibbs, I … It … I … I can't …"

"Yes you can," Gibbs urged softly while keeping his voice firm. "Stop thinking and let your lungs do the work," he ordered.

The movement under Gibbs' hand was jerky at first, but then it slowed and evened out a little as Gibbs just sat there, letting Tony get his breath back.

His breathing was still labored, but Tony seemed to be struggling less and less as the minutes ticked on. Gibbs' hand left his side for only a second—to smack the call button for the nurse—and then it was back on his ribs, measuring breaths. And providing some sort of comfort, Gibbs hoped.

"Sir?"

He was concentrating so hard on those respirations that the voice beside almost made him jump, but Gibbs just slid immediately out of the way.

Tony gave a weak gasp at the loss of contact and he reached out blindly, groping empty air as distressed little noises escaped his throat. The sounds were so low Gibbs doubted the nurse even noticed them, but Gibbs could hear every ounce of pain and fear and uncertainty in each and every muted gasp.

"I'm right here," he murmured, capturing the flailing hand and gripping it tightly.

Tony practically went limp with relief, his long fingers squeezing back. Gibbs frowned hard at the unnerving lack of strength in Tony's grip, and his eyes flashed to the heart monitor, the galloping beat slowing slightly with every electronic bleep.

"It's okay," the young nurse murmured, seeing Gibbs' tense expression. "It means the medication's working and he's in less pain."

Tony immediately tightened his weak grip on Gibbs' hand, making him marvel at his agent's perception. He knew Tony was reacting to the soothing tone the nurse had used in response to Gibbs' own worried expression.

" 'M okay," Tony whispered, confirming Gibbs' read on the situation.

Gibbs had to smile a little, but one look at Tony's face, linen white and contorted with pain, killed the expression. He squeezed Tony's hand tighter, as if to compensate for the unnerving weakness he felt in the shaking limb. "Gotta be honest, DiNozzo. You don't look so good."

Tony grunted. "Way to kick me when I'm—oh hell," he gasped, leaning over the mattress again and gagging, but nothing came out.

Seeing the red flush on Tony's cheeks, Gibbs realized he was wearing a different gown than the one he'd left in.

The nurse grabbed a basin and held it out. "Just get it out," she said, her tone soothing again. "You'll feel better that way."

But Tony shook his head, slowly, carefully. "Don't think there's, uh, anything else to get out," he said miserably.

"Okay," the nurse said cheerfully, setting aside the basin and making quick work of cleaning up the earlier mess. "I'll be right back with that antiemetic. And your doctor."

"Thanks," Tony said quietly, rolling by minute increments onto his back.

Gibbs moved out of the way, releasing Tony's hand and hoping his friend knew he wasn't going anywhere.

It took a lot more than puke to make Gibbs run away.

Gibbs studied Tony's face, wondering if he could feel the probing stare—wondering what it felt like to be lying there in the dark, unable to see the world, and the people, around you. Tony's face was pale, and lined with fear and pain. Gibbs wondered if Tony was aware of those emotions showing so plainly.

"I really hate this," Tony said, his hand fluttering at his side before coming to rest on the rail of the bed.

Gibbs covered it with his own, not liking the shuddery breath Tony took at the contact—or the string of slow, deep breaths that followed. "I know," he said, remembering that he needed to use actual words now. "You okay?" he asked, wishing that nurse would hurry back with something, or anything, that would make Tony more comfortable.

"Hurts," Tony admitted. He hesitated, then said quietly, "And it's weird not knowing what's going on around me." He paused, his face twisted in pain as he took another deep breath. "I'm trained to be observant. To pay attention to even the littlest things. But now…"

Gibbs nodded in sympathy, wanting to tell him that he still was picking up on things, like the nurse's soothing tone in response to Gibbs' worry, and that Tony had practically just read his mind. Normally, he could have given that reassurance with just a look, but that just wasn't an option now. "I understand," he said, the words sounding odd and stiff. "I got your six, DiNozzo," he added.

That got a small smile out of Tony. "I know. But it's not just my six that I can't see," he said, the smile giving way to choked words at the end of the sentence. His breathing picked up despite his obvious attempts to slow it, and suddenly Gibbs was feeling just as panicked.

"It's gonna be okay," Gibbs said, trying to sound reassuring.

He had very little experience trying to calm Tony down, he realized. DiNozzo could be rambunctious and high-spirited, but he rarely panicked. Not even when he had been lying in a hospital, very likely dying from the plague. Not even when his face had been splattered with his partner's blood. Not even after Paula Cassidy had saved a roomful of lives, giving her own as the payment. Tony tended to go silent and still when he was truly distressed, and it made Gibbs cringe at the thought of just how scared he had to be now to voice those concerns.

Tony hadn't responded so Gibbs tried again. "Doc said it's only temporary. I know it's … hard. But you have to just hang in there."

"I know." Tony gave a slight nod, but his expression was troubled when he turned his head away from Gibbs' voice. It took Gibbs a moment to realize the emotion there was shame.

_Hell,_ he thought, kicking himself and wondering if he should call Ducky, or Abby, or someone. _I'm not trying to upset you, Tony. I know you don't like it when I'm nice, or say too many words, but I can't just let you lie there, hurting and scared, thinking I don't care. _

"Knock, knock," Dr. Phillips said as he returned to the exam room with the young nurse in tow. "Jenn has some pills for you for the nausea. That's been pretty bad, right?"

Gibbs didn't miss that Tony went perfectly still at the doctor's words, but he had no idea what that tensing was in reaction to. That the nurse shared their director's name had caught Gibbs' attention, too, but he doubted that was it. It was more likely that Tony didn't like admitting any kind of discomfort.

"I hate puking," Tony said, frowning. He shrugged. "Not that anyone likes it."

The doctor chuckled. "That's for sure."

"Here you go," Nurse Jenn said, waiting for Tony to put his hand out before taking him by the wrist and placing the pills in his palm. She repeated the movements to hand him a cup of water, and Gibbs watched her movements closely, in case he should need to help Tony in the same way. She waited while Tony swallowed the medication and then waited for him to hold the cup out to her before taking it. "Thanks. I'm going to go help Annie out with that squealing baby. Feel better, okay?"

Tony nodded and murmured his thanks, his eyes moving back to where Phillips had been standing. The doctor had moved closer, though, and Gibbs didn't miss Tony's slight jump when the man spoke from right beside him.

"You seem to be having less trouble with your words. How's the tingling?"

Gibbs was again grateful that this doctor was the one treating Tony. The agent had noticed the lack of stammering and had been about to ask about it.

"That's better, too," Tony answered. "Still a little dizzy, though. And a lot blind," he added with a hard frown.

"That should resolve itself, too," Phillips reassured. "How's the pain?"

Tony hesitated for a second, making Gibbs wonder if he should have left for these questions. But he didn't really think he should leave Tony alone, either. The indecision was annoying. It wasn't something Gibbs was used to.

"It's been getting kinda worse," he finally said.

"When did it start getting bad again?"

Tony frowned again. "Since the MRI."

"And how bad it is now?" Phillips asked, looking like he already knew the answer.

"Bad," was all Tony said, turning away from the doctor's voice.

Gibbs wanted to headslap him—or himself. He should have known when Tony had admitted he was hurting that he was probably in agony.

But Phillips just nodded and pulled a syringe from his pocket, making Gibbs like the man even more for having obviously checked Tony's chart so he could come prepared. "I'm going to give you another injection, okay?"

Tony nodded, grimacing at the pain of the movement.

"I'm going to move your gown," the doctor said, waiting a few seconds before actually touching his patient. He let the back of his hand brush Tony's side as he pulled the blanket downward.

"Just don't flash my boss," Tony joked.

Gibbs smiled, glad Tony was trying for humor despite his condition, but he didn't miss that the words were slightly strained or that Tony clamped his eyes shut, his left hand gathering a fistful of blanket. Gibbs couldn't tell if Tony was actually embarrassed or if he was uncomfortable with a stranger touching him. He almost offered to give Tony the injection but decided it would be over soon and it wasn't worth calling attention to his distress.

Still, it was hard for Gibbs to watch Tony—who often shared details that would make porn stars blush—trying not to cringe away as the doctor pulled the gown from under the blanket, which he made sure stayed draped over Tony's hip. Tony swallowed hard as an alcohol wipe brushed across his stomach, and Gibbs could see him biting his lower lip.

Gibbs wasn't sure he had ever seen Tony this uncomfortable—not even when the entire team had overheard him discussing moving in with his girlfriend.

"Little pinch," Phillips said, giving Tony a warning before injecting him.

Tony didn't flinch at the needle jabbing into his belly, but he didn't take a normal breath until both the gown and the blanket were back in place.

"Let's give that some time to work," Phillips said, disposing of the syringe and moving toward the door, "and then we'll discuss—"

"No," Tony said sharply, looking genuinely frightened. "Just tell me."

Gibbs agreed—even though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the results of the tests if there was something to discuss about them. But he doubted Tony would be able to rest or relax without knowing, and Gibbs remembered what Phillips had said about keeping Tony calm during this. It made him want to headslap the doctor.

"Relax," Phillips said. "Your tests were negative."

Gibbs felt about as relieved as Tony looked. But he realized, at about the same time Tony did, it seemed, that it didn't mean this was going to be easy, or that it was over. Tony was still blind, and still in pain.

"I just meant we could discuss what you want to do next," Phillips clarified.

Tony's face twisted a little and Gibbs knew why. But he let Tony ask the question.

"Do about what?"

Phillips glanced at the heart monitor and then back at the clipboard in his hand. "Your vitals are strong. We're working on getting the pain under control. Some of your neurological symptoms are subsiding." He paused, watching his patient's face carefully. "We could keep you here, put an IV in to keep you hydrated. Or you could just promise to drink plenty of fluids when you get home—"

"You'd release him?"

"I want to go home."

Gibbs and Tony spoke at the same time, obviously to Phillips' amusement.

Gibbs gave the man credit for addressing his patient first.

"We can give you a prescription for the antiemetic, make sure you have enough of your regular migraine meds, and let you go home to rest. You'll probably be more comfortable there," Phillips said, having noted Tony's major discomfort earlier. "Or I can have you admitted and we'll keep an eye on you here. It's your decision."

Gibbs didn't miss the look Phillips shot at him at that, but he didn't mind—the doctor obviously wanted to do what was best for his patient.

"I want to go home," Tony repeated, not hesitating at all.

"All right then. I'll go get the paperwork started," Phillips said, nodding. He paused then, shooting another glance at Gibbs. "The only stipulation is that you aren't alone until the blindness and dizziness resolve themselves."

"Oh, I …" Tony shook his head, looking almost panicked again. "I—"

"I'm staying with him," Gibbs said firmly, wishing Tony could see his glare. And wishing Tony would stop questioning his place in his life. But that really wasn't his fault, Gibbs acknowledged, knowing that both his "retirement" and his handling of the situation had subtly changed their relationship. Gibbs had to admit that his own actions were likely a big part of why Tony might not trust him with the details of his side missions for Jenny.

"Good," Phillips said, heading for the door. "I'll be right back."

As soon as he was gone, Gibbs moved back to Tony's side, kicking the chair lightly before leaning against the bed and asking, "What was that all about?"

Tony flushed slightly. "I'm sure you have better things to do on a weekend off than keeping me from walking into walls, Gibbs."

"So I should just let you handle this on your own?" he asked, sounding incredulous. Maybe that trust was more damaged than he had thought.

"It's my problem," Tony said, shrugging.

"And you're my agent," Gibbs countered, his voice a little too loud. He toned it down a bit and said, "My team. My responsibility."

Tony didn't say anything, and Gibbs wished he could add what he was really thinking: _My friend. _But Tony already looked uncomfortable with the emotion in his boss's voice so Gibbs tried another angle.

"My team is my team, Tony," he said, lowering his voice even more. "I'll always have your back. On the clock or not." He paused, feeling awkward and watching Tony start to squirm, too. "It's why I don't like you running around doing whatever the hell it is that Jenny has you doing. I can't watch your six if I have no idea where you are or what you're doing."

Tony looked sick again, but Gibbs knew it was more his words than the migraine. And he hated himself for that. _So much for keeping him calm_, he thought, watching Tony struggle for words and knowing that wasn't a symptom either.

"I know, Tony," Gibbs said softly. "I worked with Jenny a long time. I know her thing with secrets. You'd tell me if you could," he added, realizing that it came out more a question than he'd intended.

"I would," Tony said immediately. He frowned, looking as pained as when he'd been gagging over the side of the bed. "I _want_ to. To tell you. To answer Ziva when she—"

Tony stopped cold, looking suddenly guilty and horrified on top of his pain and pallor.

Phillips walked back in then, and Gibbs forced himself to listen instead of trying to determine where those emotions had come from. He knew Ziva and McGee had been needling Tony about his side missions for the director. He remembered them standing around after Jenny was almost gunned down at four in the morning with her "source" and asking Tony if he was on another mission for the director—and if he would tell them if he were. But that didn't explain why Tony suddenly looked like he'd let a tiger out of the bag.

"—drink plenty of fluids, rest, and come back immediately if you have sudden, intense pain or a worsening of your neurological symptoms, especially if the dizziness becomes more pronounced or you start vomiting again despite the medication," Phillips was saying. He smiled. "And don't try to go wandering around by yourself until the blindness resolves. I don't want to see you back here with a broken neck, okay?"

Tony nodded, looking hesitant.

"Do you have any questions?" Phillips asked, seeing the look.

"I just… How long will it take?" Tony asked, biting his lip again.

Phillips didn't have to ask what he meant. "The blindness from BTM can last up to 72 hours from the onset. Give me a call on Monday either way, and we'll make plans from there." He paused, giving his patient a sympathetic look and speaking with compassion and gentleness, "You need to give yourself some time, Tony. Rest, relax. Listen to some music, or turn on a ballgame and picture the plays. You'll get through this."

Tony pulled in a deep breath and nodded. "Thank you," he said, trying for a small smile and getting it mostly right.

"Oh," Phillips said, his eyes on Tony's left hand, the skin overly pink from the powder burns from his run-in with the dirtbag in the lobby. "And watch that hand for any increased redness or swelling."

The doctor winced a little, probably realizing Tony wouldn't be able to watch for anything until his sight returned.

But Gibbs just nodded. "I'll do that."

Phillips shot him a grateful look, and Gibbs tipped his head, thinking that he'd finally met a doctor he didn't despise—Ducky excepted, of course.

"Take it easy, Tony," Phillips said, "and I'll talk to you on Monday. Jenn will be back with all of your written instructions and prescriptions. Nice to meet you, Agent Gibbs," he added, shaking hands before leaving the room.

The mention of nurse Jenn had Gibbs thinking back to Tony's horrified look when they had been talking about the director earlier, and his gut started churning again. He knew Tony didn't like lying to him—his agent's remorse had been almost painful when they'd talked in the men's room after Tony was forced to reveal he had recognized Trent Kort and then lied about it.

Gibbs suddenly wished he had answered Tony's question that day—yes, he _would_ have lied to Mike Franks, if Director Morrow had ordered him to… maybe—instead of chucking that paper towel into the trash with such a loud clang and stalking out without a word. Even if he hadn't given Tony that quasi-answer, he should have at least told his agent he was proud of him for having the balls to apologize.

But that look had been so out of the blue, so filled with emotion. _What had Tony said about Ziva? The Israeli had seemed more interested lately in Tony's girlfriend, but—_

"Hey there," the nurse said, still bright and bubbly despite the fact that it was the dead of night. "I hear you're escaping. Take me with you?" she teased, moving to the heart monitor and poking buttons.

"Wish I could," Tony said apologetically.

It was strange, Gibbs thought, knowing that in any other situation Tony would be flirting like mad with the attractive woman. _Well, before this new girlfriend he might be moving in with_, Gibbs thought, trying not to think about how shocked he had been to hear Tony was even considering that big a step. _But then, he has been seeing her a while. It's been…?_ He couldn't really put a number on it, mostly because Tony had been so tight-lipped about her in the beginning, which was also an oddity. _This girl of his must really be something different…_

"If you sit up, I'll untie this gown and get these leads off you," Jenn said, calling Gibbs' attention back to his agent, who again looked uncomfortable as the nurse helped him upright and slid the gown down his chest to remove the electrodes from his skin.

_The hell, DiNozzo? _ Gibbs wondered, remembering that time when Tony and Ziva had gone undercover in the hotel room, playing married assassins with a bit more gusto than was probably necessary. _You hiding hickies or something? Do people even say "hickies" anymore? _

Gibbs realized then that he needed coffee. Badly.

"I'll take this, too," Jenn said, resting her hand gently on the back of Tony's for a second before pulling the clip from his finger. She took him by the wrist and set his hand on the pile of his clothes she had set beside him. "You want me to help you with those or your friend here?"

Tony looked like a deer in headlights for a moment, but then he just said, "I can manage."

Jenn frowned, the expression somehow cute on her pretty face. "Okay," she said, eyeing Tony carefully. "But just yell if you get dizzy. Or end up with your underwear on your head," she added with a grin.

That got a genuine smile out of Tony, and Gibbs was glad for it. He realized he needed to pull himself out of his head and stop thinking about the director, and Tony's girlfriend, and all of those mysterious missions, and just concentrate on helping Tony get through this.

Gibbs followed the nurse to the door, pausing and saying, "I'll be right outside."

"Gibbs?"

He turned back, surprised by the hesitation on Tony's face. If he had changed his mind, Gibbs wouldn't mind helping Tony into his clothes—he just wasn't expecting Tony to ask for the help.

And he didn't.

"Thank you," Tony said sincerely, frowning in the direction of the shirt in his hands before looking up.

His gaze was slightly to the right of his boss, but Gibbs didn't mention it. He just said, "Don't worry about it, Tony. Get dressed and I'll take you home."

The frown deepened, though, and Tony said, "About that… I, um—"

"I don't mind staying at your place, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, slightly amused.

"Actually, I was hoping I could stay at yours."

Gibbs felt immediately guilty for being glad Tony couldn't see the shock he knew must be showing on his face at that. His earlier thoughts about Tony's side missions popped up again, setting his gut roiling with an almost painful intensity. _There is no way Jenny would risk an agent's life—_my_ agent's life—by putting him in danger situations that could follow him home with zero backup. She wouldn't. Jenny's a pro. There's no way. And there's no way she'd order Tony to keep silent about it—there's no way_ Tony would keep silent_ about it. _

"I mean, I know my place better," Tony said, looking a little worried, probably by Gibbs' silence as he ruminated and fumed over things he couldn't prove—or even really believe. "But I just… I don't want Jeanne coming by, and then I'd have to explain, and…"

Gibbs blinked at that.

_Oh. _

_And oh, that's her name. I guess I have heard it before…_

"She doesn't know about your migraines at all?" he asked, trying to get his thoughts in order and make the leap from side missions to new relationships that weren't all that new.

"No," was all Tony said.

Gibbs realized his glare wasn't speaking the volumes it usually did. "Don't you think that's a little … dangerous, Tony?" he asked, trying not to sound disapproving.

Tony laughed, but it sounded strained. Gibbs realized an interrogation probably wasn't a good idea right now, with Tony still in pain.

"A migraine won't kill me, Boss," he said, an odd little smile on his face that died away quickly. "Sometimes it feels like it might…"

"So why not just tell her? So she could help, if need be? Really, if you've been with this girl this long—and if you plan to be with her long-term—you should just tell her. It's not some dirty little secret you need to hide from her, Tony. It's a medical condition."

DiNozzo didn't say a word.

But the sudden pallor on his face was rather telling.

Too bad Gibbs had no idea _what_ it was telling.

"DiNozzo?" Gibbs tried, going back to last names and hoping it would snap them out of whatever too-personal hell he had accidentally thrown them into.

Tony's breathing was suddenly all wrong, and Gibbs realized it might not have been his words—admittedly a lot of words, for him, though—that had his agent looking so sick. Gibbs was starting to doubt the effectiveness of those antiemetic pills they kept giving Tony.

"I… I'm fine," Tony said, his voice as ragged as his breathing.

His hand was pressed to his belly, but he didn't throw up. He just sat there, breathing through… whatever this was.

Gibbs had to believe it was the pain. Sure, it was no secret that Tony was afraid of commitment, but Gibbs doubted the thought of being with a woman long-term could frighten him into physical illness.

Abandoning the useless thoughts, Gibbs moved beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. He forgot his lessons about talking before touching, though, and Tony about jumped through his skin at the gentle squeeze. "Deep breath, Tony," he urged, feeling Tony following the order. Gibbs stayed at his side until Tony was breathing evenly and had some of his color back. "Maybe we should stay here," he said, not liking the quivering in the muscles under his hand.

"Gibbs, please," Tony said, his voice still strained. He took another slow breath and put some force behind his words. "I'd really like to get the hell out of here."

Gibbs was surprised by the strong statement, but he simply agreed, not wanting to upset Tony any further. The doctor's words about stress and elevated blood pressure aggravating symptoms were fresh in his mind, and Gibbs just said, "Soon as that nurse gets back, we'll go."

He paused, squeezing Tony's shoulder again and realizing he was speaking almost to himself, too.

"Everything's going to be fine."

* * *

Tony didn't fight the wheelchair this time, either, when the nurse—Jenn, the name a little too close to Jeanne while he was smelling hospital—came to collect him. He spent part of the ride marveling that he was actually leaving—and that both the doctor and Gibbs were allowing it. He spent the rest trying not to think about his freakout at Gibbs' words in the exam room.

_I wish it were just the migraines I was hiding from Jeanne. And I wish I didn't have to keep lying to Gibbs. I told him I was worried Jeanne might drop by and find out about my condition, but she doesn't even know where I live. I can't tell her. I can't let her come over… and find my badge, or my gun, or the ID proclaiming me to be a federal agent, or my mail with Anthony DiNozzo written all over it. _

_But I couldn't exactly tell Gibbs that I'm worried about the Frog's people possibly finding those trackers I put on their bags. If they figure out the when, then maybe they'll figure out the who—and then show up on my doorstep to beat the shit out of me…_

_Or worse. _

_And I can't exactly defend myself right now. Hell, I can't even be sure I put my shirt on correctly right now. _

Tony dropped his aching head into his hand, the migraine flaring with the strain of too many thoughts, too much tension, too much _strain_.

"Are you all right?" the nurse asked kindly, slowing a bit.

Tony's cheeks got hot. He hadn't meant to let his inner turmoil show with such an obvious gesture. _What? Did you think if you can't see them, they can't see you? Idiot. _

"I'm okay," he lied. Nothing could be further from the truth. He wasn't okay. He wasn't even an okay person. He was a lying sack of shit who was going to ruin a young woman's life. An innocent woman. A kind, big-hearted woman who had never hurt anyone in her life. She was a doctor. She _saved_ lives.

And he shattered them.

"Oops. Sorry, Andy," Jenn said, stopping … somewhere.

Tony couldn't tell.

"Minor delay," she said, leaning forward a little so Tony knew she was speaking to him. "Can you believe someone fired a shot through the ceiling earlier?"

Tony slid his right hand over his burned left, but apparently the nurse saw it.

"Ohhhh," she said, a hint of nervousness in her voice. "That was you, huh? Uh, I mean, not you as in you who fired the shot but you who, um…"

She trailed off, and Tony didn't need his sight to recognize her embarrassment.

"Yeah," he said, faking a smile and then wondering why he was trying so hard. It wasn't like Nurse Jenn was his mark, a woman he had been ordered to charm, shifting himself into a whole new shape to please her no matter how much of himself he lost in the process, because pissing off one's girlfriend was one thing, but losing an asset in a major investigation was another entirely. He wondered how much of Tony DiNardo would stay with him after the mission was over. And then he stopped thinking—because the end of the mission was something he did allow himself to dwell on. It was unhealthy, and stupid, and deep down he knew there was only one way it could end: badly.

But he kept the smile plastered on his face. "That was me," he said, twisting slightly up at the pretty nurse. "Think they'll add ceiling repairs to my hospital bill?"

"I doubt it," she said, laughing softly at the joke.

Tony let the smile drop and tried to push Jeanne out of his head, only to realize with renewed panic that he had been about to call her when the migraine had sunk its vicious teeth into his brain and refused to let go. He had been just sitting in his car, having an internal debate about whether to lie to her and break off their plans or just tell her about the migraines. As much as he hated the thought of being vulnerable with her—and possibly letting something slip during the throes of agony that would blow his cover—he also knew he couldn't keep the migraines from her forever.

_Are you really going to go through with moving in with her? _some rational part of his aching brain screamed at him. _She has to be out of her place by the end of the month. Which is when YOU are supposedly moving into that new apartment you two picked out. What happens when she asks to come over to your place and help you pack? Do you hide everything first? Tell her no? What—_

Tony put the mental brakes on the thoughts.

He couldn't handle it—not right now. He would call her once he got to Gibbs' and tell her he had the flu. He knew that while she would want to take care of him, she would just apologize and stay away, too worried about picking up the illness and passing it on to her patients. It was something she had warned him about when she started her oncology rotation, and he had been saving the excuse for a rainy day when he absolutely needed time away.

Thoughts of that call made him wonder what had happened to his cell phone, the one he'd left on the dashboard, he realized, panicking again as he pictured Gibbs with that phone in his pocket. One call from Jeanne—answered by Gibbs—could prove disastrous.

In so many ways.

Tony fought to keep his breathing normal as the nurse wheeled him through the seemingly endless corridors. He was just about to ask her if she was taking him to Siberia when he heard automatic doors whoosh aside and Gibbs' voice, followed by the opening of a car door.

"You look like crap, DiNozzo."

Only years of experience let Tony pick up on the concern in the gruff words. He shut his useless eyes in both pain and frustration as Gibbs helped him into the car and thanked the nurse, who wished him good luck in his recovery. Tony was too tired to do more than give a halfhearted wave, feeling only slightly guilty about his wordless treatment of the bubbly nurse.

"I feel like it, too," he mumbled as Gibbs slid into the driver's seat.

He gave up completely on insisting he was fine.

There was nothing fine about any of this.

"Come on, let's get the hell out of here," Gibbs said, shocking Tony with the slightly remorseful tone.

But he didn't have much time to think about that.

The familiar ringtone from his undercover cell suddenly coming from what Tony guessed was Gibbs' pocket about stopped his heart. It was his worst nightmare, coming true right then and there. He cursed his earlier thoughts, as if somehow thinking about the disastrous call had made it happen.

Tony was about to lunge sideways for the sound—not caring how crazy he looked doing so—when it abruptly cut off. He closed his eyes again, waiting for Gibbs to answer the phone and take the call that would ruin everything: the carefully crafted lies, the mission, Gibbs' trust in him, Jenny's confidence in him.

Jeanne's life.

But all Gibbs said was: "Probably your girl again. Think she left a voicemail earlier."

Tony swallowed hard, hoping it would force his heart out of his throat, and nodded. "I'll call her later. We were supposed to meet."

There was the tiniest moment of hesitation before Gibbs asked, "You sure you don't want her to know about this?"

There was no judgment in the question, but Tony felt a knife of guilt twisting in his stomach. "I'm sure," he said quietly, keeping his tone carefully flat. "I'll call later. Tell her… something."

"All right," Gibbs said, starting the car. Tony picked up on the slight smile when his boss added, "Guess you'll be putting those undercover skills of yours to good use."

Tony fought the panic brought on by the simple mention of Jeanne and undercover skills in the same conversation, and he just nodded, wondering if his answering smile looked as bitter as it tasted.

And if his fear was showing on his face, despite his efforts to make his expression a mask of pure nothingness.

And then he tried to stop wondering, and worrying, and he simply rested his head against the glass, gathering his strength for what was to come.

He wished it were only the thoughts of spending a weekend with Gibbs helping him through his bout with the blindness. As if that wasn't bad enough.

But there was also that call he had to make to Jeanne. He wasn't sure why piling one more lie on top of the mountain he had already created bothered him so much, and it frightened him to realize he didn't know when he had stopped thinking of those lies as doing his job and started thinking of them as little seeds of betrayal. He couldn't pinpoint the moment Jeanne had ceased to be a mark and turned into the woman he was deeply in love with.

He was shocked to realize he wanted her here with him through this—and it wasn't because she was a doctor. He wanted to lie in her arms, let her gentle hands soothe away his pain. He imagined feeling her soft lips against his, banishing the clawing monster from his head. He imagined taking a cool shower with her, the flowing water washing away the sweat from his skin, from their skin. He imagined lying down with her to sleep, all pain forgotten.

And then he imagined what was much more likely to happen.

He imagined himself lying on the floor, screaming in pain and not realizing that the howled words coming out of his mouth did not belong to Tony DiNardo.

For a split second, Tony could see into the future: Jeanne's pretty blue eyes wide with shock, her brow then furrowing in confusion, and finally, her eyes going dark with fury and recrimination.

He did not usually allow himself to picture this, but the blindness had plunged him into a darkness from which he could not hide. There were no distractions here in the blackness. Nowhere to run from the premonitions he knew were destined to become reality.

He just barely stopped himself from moaning in sheer agony—a pain that came straight from his heart, not his head—but he must not have hidden his reaction from Gibbs, who put a hand on Tony's knee, silently offering undeserved comfort and making Tony realize another dark truth.

He was not safe with Gibbs, either.

Tony hated the migraines for a lot of reasons, but one of the most infuriating things about them was their ability to strip his masks right off his face. He knew this. There was nothing he could do about it. The pain was so consuming that he used everything he had to fight it, and there was no energy left over to keep up his careful guard.

Gibbs usually saw everything anyway, but Tony often felt fairly safe in the knowledge that his years of hiding had left him with the skills to protect his most vital secrets from those piercing blue eyes.

Except during the migraines.

If Gibbs chose to press him about Jeanne, about the side missions for the director he had mentioned earlier in the exam room, there was no way Tony could withstand the interrogation.

How the hell was he going to get through the weekend?


	19. Chapter 17C

Gibbs tried to keep his sideways glances at his silent passenger to a minimum on the ride through the darkness back to his house. He knew it was probably just the migraine that was keeping Tony from being his usual chatterbox self, but the churning in his gut had yet to settle completely and he couldn't help feeling like he was missing something.

He felt just like he did during a case when he knew he was lacking a key piece of information but had no idea what it was—or even where to start looking.

But that made no sense.

This wasn't a case, and Gibbs knew what the problem was. No, he wasn't exactly sure what was going on inside Tony's head, and no, he wasn't exactly sure of the best way to help him through the blindness, but at least he knew what they were up against.

And yet he still couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something.

Something vital.

Gibbs snuck another glance at Tony, his gut fluttering again at how easily he read the worry on his face.

_He's blind, dammit, _Gibbs mentally berated himself. _Of course he looks worried. And this is Tony, a guy so fiercely independent he'd rather suffer alone than admit he has a medical condition and might need a little help. _

Tony shifted a little in his seat, and Gibbs forced his eyes back to the road, about deserted since it was close to three in the morning, wondering if his agent had felt his lingering gaze. But Tony was still the subject of his thoughts as Gibbs drove, wondering too why being with his boss during this was preferable to being with his girlfriend—who was a doctor.

_How is it that he's more comfortable with me than with her? _Gibbs wondered as he made the turn onto his street. _Or is he? Maybe he just really doesn't want to tell her. I already know about the migraines. Maybe he just doesn't want to explain everything to her _and _deal with the blindness, too. But he's gonna have to tell her eventually. I've seen his face when he's on the phone with her. He's madly in love. And apparently moving in with the girl, which is a huge step for someone like Tony. A huge step for anyone… I wonder if Hollis wants to move in with _me… _It would save me from having to fix all those old pipes…_

"Gibbs?"

Tony's questioning voice made the agent realize he had been just sitting in his driveway. Gibbs gave himself a mental shake and an order to focus.

"We're here," he said, cutting the engine. "My place," he clarified, suddenly feeling a bit overwhelmed by the myriad ways he was going to have to do things differently this weekend—or until Tony's blindness resolved itself. He didn't allow himself to wonder if his sight would return on schedule with the doctor's timeline. It was too nerve-racking.

Gibbs got out of the classic car and shut the door, watching Tony do the same. But then DiNozzo just stood there, pausing for a long moment before reaching out a hand to find the roof of the car and sliding his hand down the windshield and along the hood. He stopped then, looking more uncertain than Gibbs had ever seen him look.

And then Gibbs realized he was just staring when he should be helping. He moved toward Tony, who was unnervingly still as a statue, the light above the garage door casting a long shadow behind him, and Gibbs tried to think of something to say.

But then Tony turned, putting his right hand on the hood and following the lines of the car back to the trunk, where he stopped and looked in the general direction of the driver's side door, about five feet from where Gibbs was actually standing.

"Can you pop the trunk, please?" Tony asked, his voice quieter than usual but still firm.

Gibbs realized he wanted to grab his bag and he almost told him not to worry about it, that he would get it after Tony was settled inside. But the determined set of Tony's mouth told Gibbs this wasn't just about a bag. It was about Tony's need to do things for himself and keep up some semblance of normalcy.

Gibbs opened the door again and hit the release, taking a moment slightly longer than necessary to grab his own bag from the backseat to give Tony time to find his. He shut the door just as Tony was slinging the bag over his shoulder and tracing his way back to the front of the car, where Gibbs met him, remembering to speak before touching.

"I'm on your left, a step forward," he said, keeping his tone casual even as Tony's eyes slid away.

Gibbs guessed from Tony's reddened cheeks and bit lip that he was realizing too that walking around might not be the most uncomfortable thing they would have to do in the next couple of days. But Gibbs was proud when Tony took a step and found his arm with his free hand, nodding his thanks as they made their way toward the house.

"Step," Gibbs said, just as Tony started to slow in anticipation of the front stairs.

"Last one?" Tony said when they reached the top, and it wasn't much of question.

"Yep," Gibbs answered anyway, remembering to speak and not just nod.

Tony's smile was slightly sheepish. "I guess it helps that I've been here a time or two."

"Guess so," Gibbs agreed. He was half-smiling at their early success, and he pulled the screen door open without thinking, just as Tony was reaching for it.

"Ow!" Tony yelped as he grabbed his right index finger.

Gibbs went still. "Tell me I didn't just break your finger," he said.

Tony wrinkled his nose as he flexed the sore digit. "Just jammed it," he said, shrugging. "It's fine. My fault. It's not like I didn't know that door was there."

"Still, shoulda warned you," Gibbs said, apologizing without actually violating Rule 6.

"Don't worry about it," Tony said, shrugging again as they made it into the house without incident. "I'll consider myself lucky if I make it through this without breaking my nose on a wall."

Gibbs nodded, realized the gesture was pointless, and said, "I'll, uh, do my best." He almost rolled his eyes at himself but stopped when he saw the look on Tony's face. Anyone else might have thought he was upset, but Gibbs knew it was Tony's standard reaction whenever he was nice to him. So to lighten the uncomfortable atmosphere, Gibbs said, "You get to thank me once for this, DiNozzo. Not for every little thing I give you a hand with. Got it?"

Anyone else might have thought that rude, or harsh. But Tony just smiled. "Got it, Boss." There was a bit of a spark in his unseeing eyes when he added, "And it's nice of you to let me stay here."

Gibbs noted the careful phrasing and shook his head, a smile on his face. "You are one slippery SOB, you know that?"

DiNozzo looked surprised for a second, and then some other emotion Gibbs couldn't identify flashed across his face. But it was gone before Gibbs was even sure he'd seen it. Tony grinned. "What? That was just a simple statement of fact."

"Sure it was," Gibbs said, his tone light even while he was searching Tony's face for another glimpse of whatever dark emotion he had suppressed so quickly. But he couldn't find a trace of it. And he realized he was just staring again while Tony waited patiently. Gibbs again felt guilty for using Tony's blindness for a chance to study him without his knowledge.

"Come on," Gibbs said, dropping his unneeded overnight bag by the door. "Time to hit the rack."

Tony nodded, his fingers twitching on the strap of his bag. "Yeah, I'm beat." The nervous fidgeting continued and his tone matched when he added, "I wonder how long it'll take me to brush my teeth."

Gibbs watched Tony yawn around the end of the sentence, and he fought uncharacteristic nervousness of his own. Gibbs had no problems taking charge and he rarely second-guessed himself, so he found his indecision annoying. He didn't want to upset Tony by coddling him and making him uncomfortable, but he also didn't want to be callous and let Tony struggle with every little thing just to avoid awkwardness.

Tony yawned again, and Gibbs made up his mind.

"Be a lot quicker if you let me give you hand finding everything."

Gibbs waited while Tony had a short internal struggle of his own before giving in with a nod and a small smile that bordered on smirk.

" 'Preciate it," he said, breaking into a crooked grin as Gibbs grabbed his arm and gave him a careful shove toward the stairs.

* * *

Having been a Marine, Gibbs knew how to sleep whenever and wherever possible—even if he didn't really want to. His thoughts were swirling, filled with concern even though the few minutes he'd spent in the bathroom with his senior field agent weren't nearly as uncomfortable as he'd been dreading they would be.

After locating Tony's toothbrush and toothpaste, and handing over the readied brush, Gibbs had put a washcloth on the sink, grasped Tony's free hand, and placed it on top to show him where it was. He then touched Tony's hand to the faucet to orient him further, and said, "Soap's on the left. You good?"

Tony had nodded, looking more curious than worried about performing the nighttime rituals without his sight. Gibbs had thought about putting Tony's hand on the faucet and showing him which way was on and which was off, but he realized it was unnecessary because his agent would be able to hear the water running. A long-dormant paternal side of him wanted to err on the side of caution in everything, but he stuffed the feelings down, knowing it was better to let Tony slosh water on the floor than to embarrass him by treating him like a child.

So Gibbs had just said, "You know your way to the rack. Yell if you need anything."

Things were going well so far—jammed fingers aside—but still Gibbs was worried. And he knew Tony was, too. Despite the smiles, the jokes about "thank yous" and the lack of major awkwardness, it was obvious that neither of them was forgetting for a moment why Tony was there, why he accepted the help in something as simple as putting toothpaste on a toothbrush.

The migraines—as infuriating as they were to Gibbs when Tony was suffering and he could do nothing about it, and as painful as they were for Tony—were something they had gotten used to. Gibbs was as skilled as a doctor at administering the injections, and Tony had finally started seeming at least a little less embarrassed and more able to deal with his perceived weakness when Gibbs was helping him through the pain.

But then the damned condition had thrown them another curveball.

Trying to shrug off his own concern, Gibbs couldn't imagine how terrified Tony must be, lying there just down the hall, his vision as black as the night pressing at the windows he couldn't see. The doctor had assured them that it wasn't permanent. But Gibbs knew if he was having trouble believing there was no chance the blindness would be permanent, then Tony must be struggling even more.

Finally, Gibbs did make himself sleep, but not without first wondering if the worst was yet to come.

Having been a Marine had also taught him to be alert even in sleep, so when the floor in the hall creaked under Tony's weight at dawn, Gibbs was awake in an instant. He didn't get up, though, because some instinct was telling him Tony didn't want company.

Gibbs thought about all the obstacles and hazards that might lie in Tony's path, but still he did not move. He didn't want to embarrass him over a quick trip to the head.

But when the footsteps moved toward the stairs, Gibb silently sat up, cocking his head and listening as Tony padded softly down. He strained to follow the movements, wincing at Tony's soft curse when he caught his foot on what was probably the same table Gibbs always did when he didn't put a light on.

He finally got up, moving quickly when he realized that while Tony might want to be alone, he also might need help. Gibbs also found himself wanting to keep Tony nearby, thoughts of whatever was going on in his head causing him to collapse, or have a seizure, or some other catastrophe making him want to stay close.

And once he thought about it, Gibbs wasn't even sure Tony would want to be alone. Without his sight, there was little he could do to distract himself, and Gibbs didn't like the idea of Tony sitting there alone and in the dark with nothing but pain and uncertainty to keep him company.

Gibbs made his way down the stairs, not realizing until he found himself standing silently staring into his kitchen that he hadn't made a sound. He wasn't sure if it had been intentional. He just watched Tony feel his way along the countertops and through the cabinet by the sink for a glass.

Tony paused, cocking his head slightly before opening another cabinet.

Gibbs knew what he was looking for, but still he did not speak.

Tony turned back toward the table with a glass and the bottle of bourbon, inching forward until his hip hit the edge.

"Should I have grabbed two glasses?" he asked, sightless eyes aimed toward the doorway in which Gibbs was standing.

"Should you be drinking?" Gibbs countered mildly, watching relief cross Tony's face as he located him by his voice. The emotion was strange to Gibbs, who wondered who else Tony might have been expecting. It reminded him of how Tony had locked himself in his car earlier in the night, and he made a note to press Jenny harder about those side missions.

The blindness might be making Tony vulnerable right now, but Gibbs had his six.

And he still would after Tony's sight returned.

Tony smiled wryly. "Maybe I can drink myself _un_blind."

The smile was gone by the end of the sentence, and Gibbs frowned at the thinly veiled fear in his friend's expression. He wasn't sure if it was Tony's inability to see others' faces or just the raw fear he was feeling, but Gibbs was unsettled by being able to read him so easily.

But Gibbs ignored all that and said, "Seriously, DiNozzo. Did the doc say you could drink?" His tone wasn't judgmental but still Tony's eyes slid away, off toward some unseen spot on the floor.

"Didn't say I couldn't," he said quietly, a finger running in a longing circle around the rim of the glass.

Gibbs shrugged, remembering too late Tony couldn't see it. "You know your head better than anyone, I guess," he said, wishing he had kept his mouth shut. But the fear of the unknown, of not knowing exactly what was going on Tony's head, it too was making Gibbs unsettled in a way he hadn't been in a long time.

He sat down at the table opposite his agent, making sure to drag the chair across the floor so Tony knew where he was.

Tony nodded. "And I doubt this could get any worse." He unscrewed the cap on the bottle and found the glass with his other hand, hooking a finger inside and pouring until the amber liquid hit the tip. He slid the bottle toward Gibbs, frowning.

"I got it," Gibbs said, knowing the source of the stress. He got up and got a glass, pouring his own drink and watching Tony sip slowly, his eyes on the tabletop instead of following Gibbs' movements. But those green eyes kept flicking upward, and Gibbs realized it was bothering Tony not knowing where he was.

Gibbs wondered if it was just the blindness making him so uncharacteristically skittish, and his earlier thoughts about those side missions made him ask, "You wanna tell me the real reason you didn't want to go back to your place?"

Tony closed his eyes, his smile tight, humorless.

He was quiet for so long that Gibbs almost told him not to worry about it.

"You have better bourbon than I do?" Tony said, his tone questioning even though he had to know the joking response wasn't going to fly.

"You don't drink bourbon," Gibbs pointed out.

Tony cocked his head, turning the glass in his hand. "I might start," he said, his eyes flicking in the general direction of where he had set the bottle. "This stuff's good. What is it?"

Gibbs hesitated but then shook his head and smiled. "That fancy Eagle Rare you just happened to forget on my desk last week." He paused, his unseen smile widening. "On my birthday."

Gibbs expected Tony to smile, so the pained look on his agent's face took him by surprise. Still, he asked, "Who spilled? Ducky? Abbs?"

Tony's flinch at the scientist's name told Gibbs who had revealed the carefully guarded secret of his birth date. He wondered why Tony looked suddenly paler—it wasn't like he was actually mad about it.

"I found out from Abby," Tony said carefully, "but she didn't tell me."

Gibbs frowned, trying to make sense of that. Tony just rotated his drink in precise quarter-turns, his fingers examining the pattern etched into the glass.

Gibbs puzzled over the cryptic words for a moment before it clicked. "I've been back a year now," he said quietly, watching Tony's frown pull down tighter. He realized he had no idea how Tony really felt about his abrupt demotion. If he was honest with himself, he wasn't sure he wanted to know exactly how Tony felt about his return.

"Yeah," Tony said, hesitating before closing his mouth and staring down at the table.

Gibbs could guess what he was thinking, because he could imagine how upset Abby would have been with him gone and missing their traditional birthday dinner. He wondered what Tony had done to talk her off the ledge. "Tony," he said, bumping his hand against his agent's restless, roaming fingers. "Thanks."

The smile he got in return was worth handing out the rare praise.

"I know she's going to find out sooner or later," Tony said, the abrupt change in topics taking Gibbs by surprise. Tony's eyes, still focused on the glass in his hand, were troubled.

Gibbs waited. And he shrugged off the odd feeling that Tony didn't really believe that.

"I didn't lie to you, Gibbs," Tony said, his sightless gaze flicking up in his direction before he realized he couldn't look his boss in the eyes. "I really just didn't want her to come over and find out about my…"

"Okay," Gibbs said, with a tight frown. He studied Tony's face with open curiosity, and this time he didn't feel so bad about taking advantage of the blindness. Tony was lying. He was sure of it.

But he had no idea why.

"And," Tony said, his smile sheepish, "I like it here. Feels comfortable."

Gibbs smiled, feeling his tension sliding away at the truth in the embarrassed admission. He ignored Tony's red cheeks and said, "Must be the sawdust."

Tony grinned. "Must be."

With a glance at the lightening sky outside the window, Gibbs said, "Think I'm gonna head down there. Coming?"

Tony drew a deep breath and shook his head, yawning. "Nah. I'm gonna go back to bed."

Gibbs nodded, getting up and taking the glasses to the sink. "Good. You can use the weekend to catch up on sleep," he said, turning in time to catch the guilt on Tony's face.

But the guilt turned quickly to a confused frown as Tony used both hands to feel across the surface of the table. Gibbs realized he was looking for the empty glass. "In the sink," he said.

Tony nodded.

"It was empty."

"I know," Tony said quietly, getting up.

Gibbs watched him move carefully toward the stairs, his hand out in front of him. He didn't offer assistance, knowing Tony knew his way around well enough to get to the steps. "Tony," Gibbs said, feeling strangely guilty himself. He hesitated, watching Tony stare at his own hand on the rail. "Yell if you need anything."

Tony gave him another nod, his expression unreadable again, and then he was gone.

* * *

Tony felt sick.

He paused outside the upstairs bathroom, his hand on the wall as he gave himself time to decide if his stomach was going to settle before he continued down the hall. He let his fingers trail across the soft blue paint that he couldn't see but knew as well as the colors of his own home. He forced himself to concentrate on getting to bed without falling over so he wouldn't have to think about the roiling in his gut.

It had nothing to do with the migraine.

And everything to do with lying to Gibbs.

He had been careful up to this point, sticking to half-truths and deflections when he needed to get away from the team or keep them from getting too close to the truth of what he was really doing. He had never outright lied to Gibbs before. He hated it. The guilt gnawing at his belly was almost enough to make him call Jenny and tell her he was done. He couldn't do this anymore. It was crazy to have let it go this far.

He was in way, way too deep.

He still didn't know what he was going to do about moving in with Jeanne, and he stopped thinking about it because he realized there was nothing he could do.

Instead, he tried to imagine how that conversation with Jenny would go. Badly, he knew. Jenny had some sort of personal beef with the Frog; Tony was sure of that, but he didn't know what it was. He saw Rule 10 flash in neon across the blackness of his vision, and he felt another bite of guilt. Gibbs and the director went way back, and Tony had no idea if his boss was aware of just how deep Jenny's obsession with the Frog went.

Gibbs would want to know. Tony knew that. And yet he just kept on sneaking around—to see Jeanne, to do whatever else the director asked him to—and he also kept his mouth shut.

He turned onto his stomach, feeling disgusted with himself. Unfortunately, he also felt the familiar heavy thud of pain against his temples.

"Shit."

His needles were in his bag, which was … somewhere. He didn't remember. It wasn't the bourbon—he'd poured himself barely a splash, knowing that getting drunk with Gibbs could easily turn into spilling his guts to Gibbs.

And then he wondered again why that would be so bad.

The pain flared, and Tony blew out a long breath, cursing his condition. The pain was familiar, but brutal. It never ceased to amaze him how he seemed to forget what it was like between bouts with the migraines. It was always bad, and he knew that, but somehow he managed to forget just how bad it could get. Maybe he blocked it on purpose.

There was no blocking it now.

He shoved a hand against his forehead, breathing deeply as the agony built by the second. He knew he should be looking for his bag, but the blindness and the nausea when he moved made that impossible. He thought about calling out to Gibbs, but he was too stubborn.

He pressed his face into the pillow, rocking as he fought the drills boring into his temples. He felt his cheeks flush red when he realized he would soon be summoning Gibbs whether he wanted to or not. The pain hit a shrieking crescendo and he felt the scream building at the back of his throat. He curled onto his side, fighting it.

"Hold still."

The words had him gasping even though Gibbs had barely whispered them. He felt a tug on his shirt, and then the warmth of Gibbs' hand pressing against his side just before the chill of the alcohol wipe across his stomach. The bite of the needle came next, and Tony heaved a sigh of relief, even though the pain was still shredding his brain.

Gibbs didn't speak, but he didn't move his hand either.

Tony tried to calm his breathing, biting his lip to keep from moaning in agony. He felt his mouth twist into a grim half-smile, thinking he had more than one reason to keep his mouth shut. The urge to spill the entire undercover op to his boss was almost as overwhelming as the pain.

Almost.

But Tony didn't say anything. He barely moved an inch until the storm in his head had raged itself out and he lay spent, exhausted by the effort of not screaming. He still didn't trust himself to speak without saying things he knew he would later regret, and oddly, the urge to spill was even stronger now that he wasn't fighting the pain.

"Okay?" Gibbs asked, his voice still low.

Tony nodded, glad the movement didn't hurt.

"Need anything?"

"No thanks," Tony said. His hand snaked out, latching onto Gibbs' wrist as he moved to stand.

Gibbs waited, an unseen silver eyebrow arching at how easily Tony had found his hand.

"How did you know?" Tony asked, looking up. But his eyes were about a foot to the right of Gibbs' face.

"Know?"

"That I…" Tony stopped. Frowned. "That I needed you."

Gibbs smiled, taking Tony by the wrist and disentangling.

"I know you, Tony," he said, walking to the door. "You know you can't keep things from me."

* * *

Later that evening, Tony was lying on Gibbs' ugly old couch, listening to a college football game and letting his mind wander. He had tried picturing the plays as the doctor had suggested, but his brain kept pulling up memories of his time on the field at Ohio State. Most were good memories, but there was always the knowledge at the back of his head of how it all had ended.

Badly.

He moved his leg in an attempt to alleviate the phantom pain in the knee he had blown out, but the joint just gave a soft pop, as if to remind him that it would always hurt—just sometimes more than others.

"You awake?"

Tony jumped, knowing he had been so buried in his thoughts that he had missed whatever purposeful noise Gibbs had made in an effort to avoid scaring him as he returned from the basement. He felt an odd little twinge, thinking about how his boss had been going out of his way all day to tap walls or scrape chairs, and then he felt an even sharper twinge as it occurred to him that Gibbs might have realized it wasn't just the blindness that was making him jumpy. _How the hell had the Frog's people found those trackers?_

"I'm up," he said, making no move to actually become upright.

"Hungry?" Gibbs asked.

He was, but despite the antiemetic pills, he was still feeling slightly nauseous. "Maybe a little," he answered, hoping Gibbs wouldn't suggest their usual pizza—or even the rare treat of steak, cowboy-style. His stomach couldn't handle either.

Gibbs seemed to read his wariness and said, "I have some soup I could heat up."

Relieved, Tony started to sit up. "I can get—"

"Shut up, DiNozzo."

There was an undertone of affection in the words that Tony normally would have smiled at, but the guilt over his lie turned the small kindness into something sharp that made him press a hand to his belly. Apparently his stomach couldn't handle that, either.

Tony lay back, thinking about how easy the day had been once he'd made his way down the stairs after sleeping until half past noon. He frowned, remembering the jolt as he'd realized he didn't know what time it was—and couldn't know unless he asked Gibbs. It shouldn't have bothered him—it wasn't like he had anywhere to be, especially after a surprisingly easy call to a very busy Jeanne, who simply wished him a speedy recovery when he lied to her about having the flu.

But it did bother him, not knowing the time. He wondered somewhere deep down if he was fixated on it because it was easier than thinking about how easily Jeanne had accepted his lie. And even busy, he had heard her concern for him during the short call.

It hurt worse than the migraine.

But his thoughts meandered away again, and he considered how much it irked him that he didn't even have the usual cues from beyond the windows. He didn't even know if it was still daylight.

He tried to focus on the game again, but he quickly grew frustrated with the commentators, who never seemed to mention how much time was left. He wondered if that was abnormal for announcers or if he'd just never noticed before because he had always been able to see the clock on the screen. He tried to judge the time, considering they'd finished blathering through halftime of the late afternoon matchup and football games usually lasted about three to four hours. Because of the slight fourth-quarter, close-game excitement creeping into commentators' voices, he figured it was probably about seven or seven-thirty.

He squeezed his already closed eyes harder in frustration as he realized he had just glanced at his wrist for the third time in as many minutes.

There was a thump from the hallway—Tony pictured Gibbs lightly kicking the wall, but of course he couldn't be sure—and this time he didn't jump at the voice behind him.

"Wanna eat in here or at the table?"

It was only eight words, but it sounded like a lot more to Tony, who was used to a Gibbs who could convey the question in a mere look.

"Probably less likely to make a mess at the table," Tony answered, frowning as he sat up. Dizziness was followed by the clammy feel of sweat popping out all over his skin, and he had to sit with his forearms braced on his thighs as he waited for the accompanying nausea to fade from the back of his throat. He almost laughed at the notion that the blindness had one bright side: He didn't need to bury his face in his hands because there was no light burning his aching eyes.

After the moment passed, Tony lifted his head and sat up straighter, unsure if he was ready to stand. Gibbs didn't ask and Tony wondered if his boss was just staring at him. The nausea flared again as he wondered what Gibbs was seeing on his face.

There was a closer thump and Tony didn't jump when Gibbs put his hand under his elbow to help him up.

"OK?" Gibbs asked when Tony was upright.

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna…" Gibbs trailed off, giving Tony's arm a squeeze to let him know he meant he was going to make sure his agent didn't fall on his face on the short trip to the kitchen. Tony had never been more grateful for Gibbs' sparseness with words.

Gibbs didn't let go of him until he was seated at the table, and Tony felt his cheeks go hot as Gibbs gently took him by the wrist and tapped his hand against the bowl and then the spoon. Tony told himself to suck it up and get over the idea of Gibbs being gentle with him, and he found himself smiling a little as his hand found the wad of napkins Gibbs had put under the spoon.

Gibbs was no boy scout but he was definitely a Marine—always prepared.

Tony heard the exaggerated scrape of Gibbs taking the chair opposite him and the overly loud clank of Gibbs' spoon against his own bowl. And he was grateful, because needing the obvious clues was still better than sitting there wondering if Gibbs was just watching him eat.

The silence was companionable and Tony was glad to find it wasn't all that hard to get the soup from the bowl to his mouth without his sight. Still, he kept his left hand cupped around the bowl in an effort to gauge how much he might be dribbling, but that hand stayed mostly dry. His stomach was still a little unsettled so he pushed the bowl away before it was empty, just to be on the safe side.

"Good soup," he said, wondering not for the first time where he should point his eyes. He wondered if he was making Gibbs uncomfortable with his sightless stares. But then he realized that while Gibbs might be using more words and had touched him more in the past twenty-four hours than in the past four years combined, he was still Gibbs. He'd just say something.

True to his thoughts, Tony could practically feel the look Gibbs was giving him when he said, "It's crap from a can, DiNozzo."

Tony felt his mouth kick up at the corner. "Well, at least I didn't say thank you," he said, glad Gibbs didn't seem to mind his making a little game out of the very real gratitude he was feeling.

"Until now," Gibbs tossed back, and Tony could hear the half-smile behind the grumbling tone.

"I'd say I'm sorry, but you have rules against that."

That was normally the time when Gibbs would answer with a look, so it was a double hit to Tony when he said, "Like you ever follow rules."

His tone was joking, but Tony still froze. He put a hand to his head, wishing the spikes buried in his temples were real so he could simply pull them out and stop the agony. He also wished the pain was entirely physical, but in truth he was thinking about one rule in particular—he didn't know if it had a number, but it was definitely a rule, perhaps the most important rule of them all—don't ever lie to Gibbs.

He couldn't even find comfort in that his were mostly lies of omission. Maybe that was worse. The urge to spill the entire op was strong again, and Tony tried to school his face into a calmness he couldn't feel. It only got worse when Gibbs spoke again.

"Listen, Tony," he started, and right away the use of his first name made Tony's already racing pulse find a higher gear. Gibbs sounded uncomfortable, hesitant almost, and that only made Tony's breathing that much harder.

Tony was listening all right, but all he could hear were the things he knew he couldn't handle right then. _What aren't you telling me? Why are lying to me? How could you lie to me? What's Jenny after? Why didn't you tell me? How exactly do you think it's going to end with Jeanne?_

He knew some of those questions were unlikely. But not all of them.

But Gibbs didn't ask a question.

"I know it's not always easy for you to tell me certain things," he said, and somewhere in the back of Tony's panicking brain, he cursed the blindness for the simple reason that he'd never heard Gibbs sound awkward before and desperately wanted to know what his boss's face looked like as he spoke the words. "But I want you to tell me if the pain gets to be too much. It seems like it hasn't completely gone away this time, and I hope you know I don't mind taking you back to the hospital, if need be."

Tony was too stunned by the un-Gibbs-like rush of words—both the number and the concern in them—to feel foolish about having misread the moment.

But then Gibbs was Gibbs again. "Really, Tony, you look like shit."

Tony smiled.

"Come on," Gibbs said, loudly pushing back from the table and dropping the dishes with a clatter into the sink. "I haven't watched a ballgame in a while and it'll be fun to watch your Buckeyes knock around all those smart kids at Northwestern."

Tony's smile didn't fade, even when Gibbs wrapped a firm hand around his bicep to lead him back to the couch.

"It's ten before eight," Gibbs added, "so you've got time before kickoff if you need to hit the head or whatnot."

The words were light, but Tony knew Gibbs had seen him trying to check his watch earlier. His smile was gone by the time they reached the living room, and he knew he should be feeling warmed by the small gesture, but he couldn't. If Gibbs could read his anxiety over not knowing the time, what else was his ultra-perceptive boss seeing on his face?

He didn't have much time to think about that because of the sharp crack from just beyond the front windows of the house. With thoughts of found trackers on expensive luggage and the many long-range weapons an arms dealer could get his hands on, Tony's heart leapt into his already tight throat as his body hit the floor, instinctively covering his head even though he knew his arm—mere muscle and bone—was no match for a bullet.

Sightless eyes darted left and right as his hands searched the floor around him for Gibbs. _How the hell did they find me here? Oh shit, all those shutters I heard photographing our every kiss were real. Gibbs, where are you? Jeanne, I'm sorry. Gibbs, please, please be all right._

"DiNozzo."

Tony stopped flailing as soon as he heard Gibbs' voice—coming from where he was still standing.

Hot blood rushed into Tony's cheeks as he realized his sniper sent by an arms dealer for vengeance on his daughter's undercover lover was just a car backfiring.

"Well that's embarrassing," Tony tried to joke, wondering if he could laugh this off.

The silence in the room told him otherwise.

For a second, Tony was glad he couldn't see Gibbs' face as fingers dug painfully into his arm, just above his elbow, and he was hauled to his feet. The hand pushed him two quick steps forward and shoved him down onto the battered old couch.

Apparently Gibbs was done being gentle with him.

"Speak, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, his tone interrogation-room hard. "The truth."

Tony couldn't help the flinch.

Gibbs' voice was still hard, but it was marginally quieter when he said, "I know you're hurting. And I know this isn't the best time to be doing this. But I'm done. _You're_ done. Tell me exactly what Jenny has you doing that's got you worried about taking a bullet in my living room."

Tony realized Gibbs' anger wasn't entirely directed at him. The director, had she been in the room, would be getting the exact same staring down Tony didn't need his sight to know he was getting. But still he just sat there, torn between loyalty and duty.

Gibbs' voice came even more softly. "I know what I'm asking, Tony," he said, blowing out a long breath. The last of his anger went with it. "I know that even if she didn't actually, verbally swear you to secrecy, that's what she expects from you."

Tony could only nod. He kept his eyes open but he didn't know where Gibbs was, and that made him even more uncomfortable. He waited as long as he could hold out before blurting, "Can you please just say something? I know you're not big on words and I know you're pissed at me, but please, Gibbs, I—" He stopped, took a deep breath and continued in a rush. "I can't see you and it's scaring the shit out of me."

Tony sensed a sudden stillness in the room, and then he heard the chair scrape across the floor. He pointed his eyes at the sound. "Thank you," he said quietly, useless eyes skittering away, ashamed.

"I'm sorry, Tony," Gibbs said, the genuine remorse in his tone only making Tony feel worse.

He felt like he needed to give something in return so he went with the truth—part of it, at least. "It's the Frog."

Gibbs surprised him by giving a short bark of a laugh. "Ya think?"

The words came out in a rush and Tony barely stopped to breathe—or think. "I did an undercover thing for Jenny and planted some trackers on some of his people's luggage a while back and some of those markers have recently gone dark. That day at the airport was the first time I saw Trent Kort and that's why I recognized him when his photo popped up on the plasma in the squad room that day and to be honest I'm not even sure why I lied to you about not knowing him. From the start, the director told me not to say a word to anyone about any of the side work I was doing for her—I guess she didn't want you knowing she was after the Frog but you've known that now for a while—but I guess I was just…"

"Following orders," Gibbs said, no judgment in his tone. "I know, DiNozzo. You were following your director's orders."

Neither spoke for a long moment.

"I guess that explains why you locked yourself in your car last night," Gibbs said thoughtfully. "And why you didn't want to be at your place this vulnerable."

Tony flinched again.

"Could this follow you home?" Gibbs asked, all business. "Or are you just nervous because they might have found the trackers?"

_Oh, you know, _Tony thought, _the trackers, the fact that I was dressed as a hobo and singing ridiculously outside that restaurant, the fact that I'm sleeping with an arms dealer's daughter under an assumed name… Hey, maybe you can come to our housewarming party._

"Tony?" Gibbs' voice was suddenly full of concern, and Tony realized he had his head in his hands. "Are you in pain? Dammit, I shouldn't have—"

"I'm okay," he said, raising his eyes and dropping his hands. "I don't think the Frog's people are on to me. I'm just being cautious."

Tony pictured Gibbs nodding before he said, "All right."

There were enough unspoken words between them to derail a freight train, but neither said anything.

And Tony realized Gibbs was done with the interrogation—and he didn't miss that he had gotten off incredibly lightly. He knew he should just open his mouth and keep talking, but something stopped him. It was the same thing that had stopped the desire he'd had since the beginning to tell Gibbs everything, the same messy combination of things, really. One, whether he liked it or not, the director was still the director of the federal agency that he worked for, and she had given him an order. Two, Gibbs had left, and while Tony wasn't keeping secrets from him out of spite, he had to admit that their relationship had changed since before the Mexican hiatus—and while he was admitting things, he knew he wanted to prove to Gibbs, to the director, to McGee and Ziva, that he was good enough to handle the work even after his abrupt demotion. And finally, Tony knew Gibbs knew just how badly he had fallen for Jeanne. If his boss also knew that she was a mark, not a new girlfriend… Well, Tony had no idea how Gibbs would react to that, but he knew it wouldn't be pretty.

And lying there in his own private darkness, he also had to admit that his loyalty to Gibbs should have trumped all that. He could get up and run a thousand miles and never escape that truth.

Sounds of the football game filtered into his consciousness and Tony realized the conversation was over. He tried to settle in and pay attention, but without the visual of the game, he found himself unable to keep up.

He spent the next four quarters trying to convince himself it was because of his lack of sight.

* * *

Guilt was a bitch.

A coldhearted, unrelenting bitch.

Gibbs tried to focus on the football game, but the screen kept turning into a jumble of colors that swirled faster and faster with his churning thoughts. He wanted to turn and study Tony's face, to make sure his agent actually was okay, but he was sure Tony would feel his stare. The last thing Gibbs wanted was to make him more uncomfortable.

_The guy's lying there in pain, probably scared out of his head not only because of a pack of lowlife dirtbags who may or may not want him dead, but also because he's damned blind, and what do I do? I decide now's a good time to interrogate him. Hell, Tony, I'm sorry._

"Dammit!"

Startled, Gibbs' eyes flew to the couch and he was about to ask if Tony was all right when the announcer's voice pierced his bubble of guilt. Northwestern had scored first.

"It's early," Gibbs said, sneaking a look at his agent.

"Yeah, I know," Tony said, frowning before he seemed to decide to shake it off. "Was it at least a pretty pass?"

Gibbs almost missed it, but there was a slight hopefulness in Tony's voice that made him feel worse. He knew it had nothing to do with the game.

"Nah," he said, settling deeper into the chair and forcing himself to focus on the TV. "Wobbly as all hell, but the wideout still managed to haul it in."

"Damned receivers," Tony said with a hint of a smile, because, Gibbs knew, he had been one.

"Quarterback should thank him," Gibbs said, "for making him look good."

They watched the rest of the matchup with more conversation than they ever would have if Tony could see the game playing out on the screen. Gibbs even gave a detailed—for him, anyway—description of a blown call that cost the Buckeyes a touchdown, and Tony made a joke about blind zebras that made Gibbs snort a real laugh. By the time half of Ohio was dashing onto the field to celebrate the come-from-behind win, the awkwardness was gone from the room.

Gibbs didn't move to click off the TV until Tony stood and stretched, saying, "I'm beat. Time to hit the rack." He added, "You know, you're pretty good at the play-by-play commentary, Boss."

The corner of Gibbs' mouth quirked up at the veiled thank you. "I think I'll keep my day job. Just in case."

Tony laughed and started making his way toward the stairs.

"Hold on," Gibbs said, getting up from the chair and shaking a foot that had fallen asleep. "I'll give you a hand."

Tony stopped on the bottom step, eyes on his hand on the newel post. "It's okay, Boss. I think I got the hang of it."

Gibbs stopped, looking up at his agent and trying to read his face. He kept his voice neutral. "Yell if you need anything."

"I will," Tony said before disappearing.

Gibbs spent a long while trying to decide if his smile had been strained, or altogether fake.

That was the thing about guilt: Just when you thought she had taken her shit and moved out, she was back, coldhearted as ever.

* * *

Tony came awake in an instant, wondering when Gibbs had gotten a dog.

And then he realized he was the one howling.

And then he realized why.

The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt, and considering his job, his football days, his migraines, the damned plague, that was saying something. He could never really say he got used to the agony of his migraines, but at least the pain was familiar. He knew what to expect.

Or at least he thought he knew.

This was like being stabbed through the base of his skull with a superheated, razor-sharp blade. Repeatedly. He had pried his eyes open for half a second to confirm he was still blind. And he still was. And it was no surprise considering the chain saw about to take his head off.

He realized he was still screaming about the same time he noticed he wasn't alone. Gibbs was speaking softly into a phone, calling for an ambulance. Tony didn't stop him. He couldn't. He didn't want to.

"Tony."

The voice was suddenly right next to him, and he might have yelped. It was hard to tell with the roaring of the chain saw and his own harsh cries. His stomach flipped and then he wasn't sure which way was up.

"Boss… floor… gonna… puke," he gasped.

"Already there," Gibbs said, his hand on the back of Tony's, uncurling his clenched fist until he felt carpet under his damp palm. "Go ahead."

In enough pain to be beyond embarrassment, Tony gagged without picking up his head. But nothing was coming up and the dry heaves felt like they were turning him inside out, jarring his imploding head with every powerful contraction of confused muscle.

"Please," he whispered, more than once.

He just wanted the searing pain to stop. He didn't even care if it killed him. It just had to stop. He didn't care if it was just for a minute—or a second.

It just had to stop.

But that wasn't in the cards.

The agony just kept drilling into the base of his skull and he wrenched his hand out of Gibbs' tight grasp, putting both hands to the back of his head and fully expecting to feel the wetness of blood. There was none, and if he had been even remotely coherent he would have noticed Gibbs pulling his hands away and examining the area himself. He also would have heard Gibbs' voice asking him over and over what he could do to help. It was probably better that the words didn't register because Tony would then know that Gibbs had already injected him and the medication wasn't even touching the pain, that it had been as futile as shooting an arrow at an aircraft carrier.

He did, however, hear Gibbs shout "Up here" an eternity later. Tony hoped that meant paramedics would soon be coming to put him out of his misery.

Through the fog of pain and the feel of too many unseen hands on his body, Tony somehow managed to tune out the medics' overly loud exchanges of information and find only Gibbs' soft voice amid the assault on his remaining senses.

His boss was apologizing. And that scared the shit out of him. But there was nothing he could do about it.

A tiny twinge in his arm joined the agony in his head—a bee sting to a bullet wound—and then there was nothing.

He was out cold.

* * *

When Tony woke up in the hospital the next morning, it took him a moment to realize he could see.

It took him even longer to realize that he didn't feel any better. Physically, yes, he felt fine—he had no idea if last night's episode was normal for BTM, but there were no lasting effects except the vague feeling that his memories of the pain didn't even come close to doing it justice. But it was gone now and he dealt with it the way he handled all things painful: He decided not to think about it.

So his body felt fine, but his mind was still tormented. Finally he could see that he couldn't go on like this anymore, couldn't keep up the lies.

It just had to stop.

He couldn't keep lying to Gibbs—especially after the million small kindnesses the man had shown him during this wretched weekend, but even more so because his boss deserved the truth.

Jenny was scheduled to return from her Paris trip that afternoon, and Tony decided he would tell her he couldn't use Jeanne anymore to help her get to the Frog. No op was more important than protecting the innocent, and he knew—to anyone else he would have said in his gut but he knew it in his heart, too—that Jeanne had no idea what her father really did for a living.

Tony even thought for a moment about meeting Jenny's plane at Dulles, but he knew he needed to see Jeanne first. He would go to the hospital today, but he decided he wouldn't tell Jeanne the truth there—not in front of all of her colleagues, not at her workplace. He realized with a twisting in his gut that it might include a few more lies because he knew as soon as she saw him, she would ask for confirmation that they were going to see the cute little bungalow that she sounded so excited about. He hated to do it, but he would lie to her and tell her they could go see it—and he would remind her, gently but firmly, that seeing the house didn't mean buying it.

He would tell her before they ever got within a mile of her cute little dream house.

He would tell her about his lies, tell her that her dream boyfriend was nothing more than a well-crafted mirage.

He would break her heart.

And in doing so, break his own.

He knew she would never forgive him—even if she were willing to try, he knew the lies would follow them, always.

But she deserved the truth. And he was going to give it to her.

One way or another, the lies were going to end today.

**End**


End file.
